


Bad Education

by Kronos_KingOfTheMonkeyPeople



Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Banter, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance, frequent creative eviscerations of public servants, politically crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 62,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5205095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kronos_KingOfTheMonkeyPeople/pseuds/Kronos_KingOfTheMonkeyPeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the run up to the election, Malcolm Tucker is doing all he can to drag the party to the finish line - that is until a bright young teacher from Coal Hill manages to screw everything up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I miss these idiots, so in order to hold my mind hostage to continue writing this fic, I've posted it here on a03. Enjoy!

Coal fucking Hill.

Malcolm gave a curt sniff and untucked his blueberry from the pile of folders under his arm, as his thumb fell into muscle memory and tapped away at the keys. He could hear the Prime Minister’s voice waft through the pack of press huddled in the schoolyard as he trumped up his policy to the cameras. Malcolm let out a sigh: three weeks till the election and yet here they were playing happy hand holding hour with cerebrally challenged secretaries of Education and DoSAC. That’s what happens when one insists on a _‘positive campaign’_. But at least it would provide enough light for him to work on slitting people’s throats in the shadows.

“53!” A hushed squeaky voice appeared beside him, which he didn’t have to look up from his phone to immediately identify as belonging to DoSAC scrotum buffer Ollie Reeder. “Two party preferred at 50-fucking-3 precent! We’re fucking Rocky Balboa!”

“Oi.” Malcolm shot up from his phone with a stern glare. “Watch your language, there’s kids around.”

Ollie promptly shut his mouth in surprise then stood awkwardly beside him as they both watched the crowd of press and school children as now the Secretary for Education took to the podium and quickly fell in line with kissing the PM’s arse.

“Check out Nicola.” Ollie interrupted again with a nod to where Nicola Murray stood in front of a gaggle of teachers and parents that had been wrangled for background fillers, enthusiastically nodding to points made by the Secretary of Education. “She looks like some sad old neglected pound dog just gagging for a scrap of attention. _P…please Mr PM!_ ” Ollie’s face scrunched up as he mocked with a high-pitched voice. “ _Just one little pat? I’ve been ever so good!_ ”

Malcolm raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I’m sorry, are you trying to have some friendly tête-à-tête with me?”

“I was just… commentating.” Ollie shrunk.

Malcolm leant in to him with a hushed voice. “Yeah well how about you tête-à-take that commentary, write it down in your little fairy dust diary and shove it so far up your glory hole it reaches your sad excuse of a brain, which it should never have left in the first place? I’m trying to watch. Make sure your boss doesn’t do anything to muck up that 53% your wee peen was getting a rise out of five seconds ago.”

“You do know we’re the ones who actually organised this press conference to begin with.” Ollie countered petulantly.

“Well _excuse me_ for giving your homoeopathically weak tea of a Secretary a shot of credibility by bringing the real stars to shine a little light on her, here in whatever ASBO breeding ground you’ve managed to uncover. Who even decided hold it here anyway?”

“Um… Nicola.” Ollie quickly avoided. “Something about forming diamonds.”

“Great.” Malcolm growled. “Go and get the cars ready then, so I can shut this down and herd her away before she starts stuttering out ten pages of special-ed level metaphors.”

Ollie opened his mouth in objection, but Malcolm gave an aggressive flick of his hand so quickly shut it and hurried away through the schoolyard. Malcolm checked his watch with a glower then looked back up to the podium when Nicola Murray started to edge awkwardly towards the mic and took her place under the media spot-light.

His face froze.

“Oh _f_ …flay me.”

 

 

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Clara tried desperately to hold back a roll of her eyes as she stood behind the row of politicians spouting bullshit about education reform. _It’ll be a lark_ , Danny tried to convince her when they were asked by some advisor to stand in the background for the cameras, _when else are you going to be two feet away from the PM?_

She should really stop listening to Danny. He was a sweet guy, who had a cute little crush on her, but the way he was standing next to her in regimental at-ease just made her even more agitated. She didn’t want to be used as some set dressing of support for a policy she despised, but there she was anyway. All that was left for her to do is keep a blank face and pray the conference ended quickly. Very quickly.

The schoolyard filled with the snap of photographs as one politician stopped speaking and let the last one finally have a go.

“H…hello.” Clara winced as the woman’s voice punched from the speakers while she tried to figure out the correct distance to the microphone. “Yes… hi. Hello. Um. I would like to join my esteemed colleague and, of course, our _most_ _esteemed_ Prime Minister to say thank you. Thank you to Coal Hill for having us here and for showing you out there, the press and the public, just…um… what wonderful work is happening here in this school… and in our government – where you can truly see the fantastic results. Here. In this school.”

Clara bit down a grown of utter frustration. The woman obviously had no clue what she was talking about she almost felt like covering her eyes in second hand embarrassment.

“Since the implementation of DoSAC’s Stronger Citizenship Awareness in Adolescents, or SCAA as some of the _cool kids_ like to call it…” Clara grimaced but the minister continued on anyway. “And then from our policy’s folding in with our party’s revolutionary education reform of standardization and oversight, schools just like this one here have flourished and stepped up to the challenge to deserve real budgetary rewards which um… which is why Coal Hill Secondary School truly is an example of all the good our government has done throughout the schools of Britain. Because everyone knows with a bit of pressure and time, a boring lump of _coal_ will turn into a _diamond_.”

The audience was silent.

“I mean um… that’s not to say that this school was ‘boring’, it’s clearly fantastic, but, you know, nothing is truly perfect and so you’ve just got to keep on striving – don’t you? So with more pressure from this government we know we can get results. I mean to say, not stifling pressure… but… um… just the right amount. Like the bears. I mean the porridge. The--- um… but don’t ask me for proof of results, you only have to look around you…” The minister turned to wave a hand before the row of teachers. “… to talk to the people on the ground, the real, hard working implementers, to see the change.” Suddenly the minister’s eyes fixed on to Clara’s. “Have you not noticed the change?”

The world shifted to half speed as Clara could feel the eyes and lenses of the crowd of press slowly turned towards her. She’d laid her out as a sacrifice, the slimy politician.

“I have.” Clara let out stiffly; trying to hold back the torrent she had felt rise up inside her throughout all the speeches. She had to keep it down. She would loose all control if it got out. But when the minister gave a small smile and turned back to the podium she knew it was too late. They weren’t getting out that easily. “It’s changed for the worse.”

The woman whipped back round and opened her mouth cover her but Clara was too fast. “Ever since the new policy roll out of tests, standardized curriculum and even more tests, this school’s _‘calculable figures’_ may have risen but the quality of actual education sure hasn’t.” The minister tried again to interrupt but she was too far in now to stop. “You like statistics so much – here’s a nice one for you: In the last two years drop out rates have increased by 10%. That’s smart, promising children giving up on learning because they don’t fit some pre-conceived box by a government who knows nothing about who they are or where they’re even from. You say all you have to do is look around this school to see the results – well it’s obvious you and the Prime Minister haven’t given the faintest glance, otherwise you’d see it’s undermining the future of so many children. This isn’t education: it’s a checklist. An- ”

“I’m sorry the Prime Minister is needed back at Number 10.” A deep Scottish voice suddenly called from the mess of cameras, snapping her back to reality.

What had she done?

The press ignored the call to cease and began shouting questions at Clara like arrows, hemming her in tighter to the line teachers. She looked up to see the ministers being nudged away by a tall thin man who tried to shoo away the reporters when he turned his head and shot her a look like a shard of ice. Her breath caught under his intense gaze, but in and instant the tall grey haired man had turn and gone, leaving her alone as prey to the encroaching press.


	2. Chapter 2

Doe eyed. Of course she had to be fucking doe eyed. Like some fucking Bolshevist Disney Princess.

Malcolm pushed through the crowd, trying to get to the cars at the gate while cursing himself for letting the colossal rocket sized dildo of a fuck up happen under his watch. Nicola Murray was very quickly moving from a thorn in his side to a jagged rusty axe lodged in his fucking shoulder. He had to silence her now, lest she manage to single handedly derail the whole fucking campaign.

And speak of the devil; there she was – scurrying off with Ollie, trying to hop into a car before Malcolm caught them. Not fucking happening.

Malcolm lurched into a speedy waddle, ducking past the small children and stray reporters when he finally passed through the school gates and managed to grab the handle of the black car door just before it shut.

“ _Oh Jesus!_ ” He heard a voice sigh from the car.

Malcolm wrenched open the door and shoved himself in, forcing the red faced Ollie and Nicola over along the small seat then slammed the door, locking them all in.

“You can talk, fucking Judas in a tart’s dress.” Malcolm spat as he leaned over Ollie to point accusingly at her. “Why the fuck are you handing opposition propaganda on a silver titted fucking platter at our own fucking press conference?”

“Well I didn’t know she was going to be against the policy now did I, Malcolm?” Nicola rubbed her brow in frustration. “I mean she was standing behind us the whole bloody time I just assumed she supported us.”

“ _Assumed_? You _assumed_? Let you play a game of Russian roulette you’d probably _assume_ the whole chamber is full of fucking rose petals.” He huffed. “You assume it makes and ass out of _you_ and _you_ , because I’m not getting fucking dragged in to your little coal-covered cluster fuck: I’m the one fucking holding the match above it. And I’m getting _really_ fucking close to dropping it.”

“It’s not my fault I needed a diversion.” Nicola grumbled weakly.

“Are you fucking _kidding me?_ ” Malcolm let out a cold laugh of utter disbelief. “It’s so much your _own_ fucking fault, I think the fault casts such a big fucking shadow past this cock-up it covers all the other giant shits of history, so much so I’m pretty sure I can blame you for the Hindenburg and fucking Justin Beiber.”

“I wasn’t expecting on giving a speech to the entire British press!” She tried to defend herself. “Until yesterday this whole thing was meant to be me just saying a quick few words about a policy no-one sodding cares about, take a picture with the principle for the little local newspaper no one sodding reads, smile, smile, have a sandwich, then bugger off. Then you lot swoop in and it’s a bloody James Cameron production complete with explosions provided by fucking _me_.

He just glowered at her as Ollie started to shrink in the seat between them. “You’re a professional politician, right? You’re getting paid? You’re being paid by the coin purses of 60 million British citizens to sit on the fucking Cabinet, are you not?” Malcolm threw his hands out at her in interrogation.

Nicola’s face twitched. “Y…yes.” She murmured.

“Well then fucking _act_ like it.” He shouted back. “In fact, don’t fucking act like it, because shit like you couldn't act your way out of a diarrhetic child. Fucking _be_ it. Learn to fucking think on your feet rather than need over 24 hours to gather your piss-weak excuse of a consciousness enough to change one fucking line of a pre-written statement. Or have you just given up on the whole ‘professional politician’ thing to begin with?”

“No.” She quickly responded.

“Then shove a cork up your arsehole and stop this fucking shit.” He let out with a wave off his hand.

“I um…. I will.” She managed to murmur in submission, slinking back in the seat.

“Well fucking good.” Malcolm sighed in frustration.

“Good.” Nicola echoed from the other side of the car.

“Good.” Ollie’s weak voice joined from the middle.

“Who the fuck asked for your opinion you fucking bad imitation of an afterbirth?” Malcolm barked with a glare that promptly sent Ollie back sinking into the seat.

The car filled with a stifling silence as it edged through the London traffic.

“Look…” Malcolm finally let out a grated sigh, his hands folded tight around his lean frame. “…on the plus side at least the lass was just shouting about education. No one gives two shakes of a piss-covered cock about education. They fucking pretend to, but they really don’t.” He could sense the two cautiously lowering down their guard as he begrudgingly continued to draw them back to his side. “They’ll be some annoying questions but then the whole thing will fade away quicker than the Queen’s fart in the breeze.”

Nicola edged her head around to look at Malcolm. “You’re sure?”

His eyebrows dropped to a firm line. “What the fuck did I tell you about holding back your brain vomit fucking demon child from the Exorcist – of course I’m fucking sure! Now sit the fuck back in the corner and think about what you’ve done.”

She swiftly returned back to the seat, leaving Malcolm to turn his gaze to the outside world crawling past the tinted window.

It would fade away. She would fade away. He knew she would.

But for some unknown reason, as hard as he tried, he still couldn’t get them out of his head.

Those big fucking doe eyes.

 

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Clara hitched her bag up her shoulder and strolled quickly through the hallway, hoping she could move fast enough to avoid any of the school children’s off-hand comments about her unexpected outburst the day before.

“Heya Miss Hillary Clinton!” A young cocky voice shouted down the hall.

Too late.

She looked at the boy giggling with his mates and gave him a tight smile then quickly turned to escape to the teacher’s room, when she almost ran into the Principle.

“Mr Turner!” She forced a smile as she cursed her luck. She’d successfully avoided him all day yesterday after the conference, knowing she would be getting quite the berating for putting their school under the critical spot light.

“Miss Oswald.” He replied sharply. “Could I have a word with you in my office?”

“Of course!” She tried to reply brightly but he had already turned around and moved down the hall, leaving her to follow, the slow creep of doom rising inside her.

When they made it to his office, she slowly closed the door on them as she tried to gather the words of her apology. “I…”

“Yesterday was interesting.” Mr Turner beat her to it.

“Yeah.” Clara nodded weakly. “I guess it was.”

He leaned on his desk and folded his arms. “Do you know they put you on YouTube? It’s already gotten quite a few hits.”

Her stomach sank. “Has it?”

“The press are no doubt going to try and get a hold of you.” He continued.

“Yeah.” She agreed gravely, waiting for his blow to come.

“Well, I just wanted to say then, whatever happens – you have our full support.”

Clara whipped her eyes up at him. “I’m sorry, _what_?”

“Giving the government a good bullock. We and the teachers are behind you 100% of the way.” Mr Turner replied cheerfully.

She started to get worried. Did he think she was trying to be some sort of martyr? “Listen I-”

“Any statements or protest, we’ll be there for you.” He interrupted.

“ _Protests_?”

“Yes.”

“Um…ok then.” Clara shifted uncomfortably, feeling like she had just been thrown head first into a pool she only wished to dip her feet into. “That’s… um… good to know sir. Thanks.” The Principle smiled at her with pride as she began to back slowly away to the door. “So I’ve got to pop off and teach some 13 year olds how to rhyme but thank you. For your… um… support. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”

She gave a polite smile then opened the door and escaped as quickly as she could.

 

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Malcolm stabbed his thumb into the centre of a tangerine and tore the orange flesh in two as he loomed over the pages of polling data spread out over his cluttered desk, when the door opened and his right arse-fisting hand man strolled in.

“How go things in the land of fucking Mordor where the shadows lie?” Jamie crooned with his Scottish brogue.

“Fucking dandy.” Malcolm replied shortly, looking back down at the spreadsheets of data.

“What do the new numbers look like?” He moved up to the desk.

“Like we’re hanging on by the shrivelled up little foreskin of our teeth.” Malcolm growled.

“Well we better watch out because I think there’s a potential fucking Bris headed our way.”

Malcolm shot his eyes up to him. “The fuck happened now?”

“That hot little piece of teacher arse and her crazy fucking rant got posted to YouTube, and now the hits are rising quicker than the prick of a horny pimply boy watching the feisty train wreck.”

“How many hits?” He glowered.

“Over 450,000 in 8 hours. And growing.” Jamie answered. “The press are no doubt scratching at her door like starved fucking zombies, so it’s only a matter of time before she jumps on the popularity band wagon and starts throwing her unwanted opinions at everything like some shit hurling monkey.”

“Find her dirt.” Malcolm ordered.

“Right you are.” Jamie gave a smile. “You want me to give her a call too? Sneak a verbal dead fucking horse’s head in her bed?”

“No.” He sunk down into his chair and ran a finger along his jawline in thought. “I’ll talk to her.”

Jamie’s eyes widened in surprise. “Don’t you think slaughtering civilians is a little below your pay range?”

“You want something done right you get the fucking professional in.” Malcolm glared. “I’m fucking sick of letting people screw up all my fucking masterwork – I want her _silenced_ , so I’ll do it my fucking self.”

“So not a chance to stare down her top then.” Jamie quipped.

“Fuck you.”

“Change the subject in that and you’ve got a good pick up line.” Jamie gave a twisted smile.

“Get the fuck out of my office you fucking pervert.” Malcolm huffed as Jamie skipped out the door with a knowing grin.

The little shit didn’t know a thing. He was simply going to stamp the little fucker of a fire out, obliterate all the surrounding oxygen and let it die out before it had any further chance of spreading.

He was just going to do his fucking job.

Nothing more.

 

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Clara scribbled a note in the margin of the student’s essay then flicked it onto the small pile of paper beside her with a tired sigh. Eight done, eighteen more to go.

The empty classroom echoed with the squeals and shouts of the children outside, running around in their lunch break, when her own stomach joined in the noise, crying out for the soup waiting for her in the staff fridge.

But she couldn't go into the staff room. The teachers were determined to spend every spare moment that day huddled around laptops, watching the view counter increase on her little ranting video like rowdy football fans. They’d cheered when she opened the door but then she quickly made up some lame excuse about forgetting her bag she was actually wearing, and escaped to her classroom to hide like some friendless kid without a lunch mate.

She had let her mouth go before her mind could stop it. Again. It was always the same. But this time people thought she was acting like a hero, like she had planned to embarrass the PM and incite some revolution.

She didn’t want a revolution.

She just wanted her soup.

Clara slapped another essay in front of her and checked her phone for the time when she remembered she had turned it off since she got a call the night before from a very slimy sounding reporter. No phone and no email. Not until this mess died down. That would teach her to think before she bloody speaks.

“ _As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, they kill us for their sport_.” Clara jumped in her chair when the schoolyard noise was cut by a Scottish voice. A voice she recognised.

She whipped her head around to see the same thin grey haired man from the day before, the one who had given her a look that chilled her to the bone, leaning hands in pocket against her classroom door frame, his stern eyes squinting at the quote written on the white board behind her.

“Bit nihilistic for young minds, don’t you think?” The man continued before she could speak as his gaze darted to her. “What ever happened to the old _carpe_ _dium_?”

“It’s not part of the government curriculum.” The replied coldly, finally finding her voice.

“ _Touché_!” He gave a crooked smile but never took his eyes of her, keeping her in a state of unexplainable unease, when all of a sudden he pushed himself off the frame and stepped into the room. “Is it alright if I have a quick word with you?” He asked while closing the door on them anyway.

“Sure.” Clara responded sceptically, watching as he walked up to her desk.

“We haven’t been formally introduced, my name’s Malcolm Tucker.” He put out his long, wiry hand with a stretched smile.

“Clara Oswald.” She shook his hand with a matched firmness. She noticed his blue-green eyes flick her up and down in quick inspection, then he turned and swaggered around to the front of the classroom.

“I used to love studying Shakespeare when I was a lad.” Malcolm casually grabbed on of the children’s plastic chairs and placed it before her desk. “Not that I understood one fucking line of it, mind – I was only interested in hunting down all the naughty words I could.”

“Can’t say boys have changed much over the years.” She deadpanned while he sat down comfortably on his chair, swinging one long well suited leg over the other.

“Aye. But then again kids these days aren’t exactly starved of resources. What with Google… and YouTube.” He threw out the last word casually, but there was something behind his charm, some raw nerve of energy just behind the eyes, that made her cautious.

“That’s why you’re here then.” Clara stated bluntly. “The video. So – do you mean to threaten me?”

“ _Threat-_? No!” His bushy eyebrows stretched up in astonishment. “I’m here to _help_ you, Miss Oswald. Your little speech is getting quite the exposure, and the blood suckers and sadist hacks I like to call the British Press won’t take long until they pick up your scent. But then again...” His gaze finally relented from hers to flick to her desk. “…considering you’ve turned off your mobile, I’d say they’re already on the hunt.”

“Of course. Because I’m the one who embarrassed the Prime Minister in front of the country, you only just to _help_.” She said in mock agreement. “Do you think I’m so naïve that I would hide from the foxes in a lion’s den, when there’s a viral video out there of me saying _Lions are pricks_?”

“I think you’re naïve about how much trouble you could get yourself in.” His eyes darkened for a moment but then cleared up quickly as he edged forward in the plastic chair. “You were at _our_ press conference, answering a question put forward by _our_ minister – I do feel partially responsible for the shit storm heading your way and I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least offer my assistance.”

“And what assistance is that?”

“How to handle the press. You’ve done well already turning off your phone but you can’t do that forever. I can assist you in getting out of the spot-light and back to doing your actual job, uninterrupted by political junkies like me.”

Clara looked him up and down. He was a rather an attractive man, now that she thought about it, in a sort of striking, hawkish way. “So what would you advise I do first?” She carefully relented.

“Let out a brief statement. Dilute the blood in the shark tank.”

“A statement?” Clara instantly became wary

“Yes.”

“Saying what, exactly?”

“That what you said was just a personal opinion that you never intended to express under such publicity, or have it construed as some sort of political protest.”

“But it was a protest.” Clara stated simply. His gaze sharpened. “It is my personal opinion that the Prime Minister’s education policy is bullocks, so I said that to him. I protested to him. Isn’t that how this whole democracy thing works?”

Malcolm bristled. “You may have expressed your personal opinion to him, but the problem is sweetheart, you expressed it in front of ten fucking TV cameras.”

“So?”

“So not every fucking citizen has that amount of broadcast range.” His voice turned cold.

“But no one has to listen to me. No one’s forced to agree with my personal opinions. But people have. Quite a few people have, now that I think about I think about it. I’m not about to go back on my views just when they’re starting to gain supporters.”

“Well aren’t you becoming a regular fucking Pol Pot.” Malcolm’s brow dropped to a dark glare.

“I’m just trying to make a difference.”

“You want to make a difference? You want to affect national policy? Then get fucking elected to fucking Parliament.” He suddenly shot up from the chair and loomed over her desk. “Or do you think fucking _page views_ and _retweets_ are our government’s future? Fucking meme based budgets and a Secretary of State for fucking grumpy cats! You can have your viral fucking video along with all the sneezing babies and fucking fat cunts with lightsabers, but leave the fucking governing to the fucking professionals, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart!” Clara stood up defiantly to match him. “And I would leave the governing to your guys if they actually did a proper job at it.”

“Oh! My _sincerest_ fucking apologies Your Highness! I am sorry the entire cabinet and all the public servants haven’t performed exactly to your fucking _whim_. But there are other fucking people in this country we’re trying to serve too.”

“Really? I thought you only meant to serve yourself. Because you’re much more focused on keeping the keys to Downing St than you are about the future of the kids that sit in this classroom everyday.”

“These kids of yours are far better off with us having the keys than the fucking caviar swilling, self entitled pigs of the Opposition.” Malcolm spat.

“Really? Maybe I’ll just have to meet them and judge myself.” Clara smirked, enjoying the way his face instantly reddened.

“Do you think this is fucking amateur hour? Do you think you can actually take on this government yourself like some fucking Top Shop Mr Fucking Smith? I’m sorry to say this _sweet_ -fucking- _heart_ but you’re getting way out of your depth. In fact you’re fucking sinking and you don’t even know it yet. I had the lifesaver, I was going to throw it in, but now I’m just going to sit back with a fucking Pina Colada complete with a fucking miniature umbrella and watch you sink to the fucking bottom.”

“If you’re feeling threatened by one small English teacher expressing her opinion, then your party must be really fucked.”

“You’re not a threat. You’re a pest. You’re one of those fucking flies from Shakespeare, and I’m the God who will kill you for sport.”

“Then I have no choice but to try and bite you.”

“Not if I crush you first.”

“Bring it on.” She leaned in closer and stared straight into his eyes when a defiant smile rose on her lips. He studied her for a second in perplexity but then his own thin mouth twisted into a Cheshire grin.

“Your fucking funeral.” They locked eyes, an unexpected chill running up Clara’s spine when all of a sudden he sprang back from the desk.

“See you on the fucking battlefield, Joan of A Levels!” He strolled to the door, leaving the chair in front of her desk. “Try not to fall on your own fucking sword before I get to deliver the final fucking slice, ok?” He said with a point of his long finger, then he swiftly opened the door and disappeared.

Clara’s heart was thrumming at a million beats per second, the adrenaline searing through her veins, when she picked up her mobile and held down the power button as it turned on with a melodic flourish.

So much for keeping her mouth shut.


	3. Chapter 3

He fucked up.

Malcolm scowled out the window of the taxi as it edged back to Whitehall. He was the master of darkness, the ultimate manipulating puppeteer and who could find the perfect way to pull on anyone’s string and he fucking fucked up.

Something about that obstinate midget of a teacher made him drop the ball, and it frustrated the hell out of him. He should have kept his cool. He should have tried to charm her to his side, but instead he accelerated straight into the fear tactic, a tactic that, admittedly, always seemed to work with him – but the fucking short skirt didn’t even flinch at it.

Fuck, she even seemed to be encouraged by it.

She could have been calmed down and shut up but he fucked up.

Then again, at least a bit of old dirt flinging would cover up his mistake and set things right. He shouldn’t give it another thought. It would be handled.

Malcolm tapped impatiently on the taxi door.

That little smirk she gave him, did she even have any clue about what she was getting into? Was she just like all the other clueless fucks he dedicated his life to cleaning up after? He could have sworn she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders but the way she so gleefully defied him made him question if he was just blinded by her confounding passion.

He rubbed his eyes with his hand in frustration. She was going to be old news by the end of the day - it was time to get back to all the other fuck ups on his plate.

Malcolm whipped out his phone from his jacket pocket to call Jamie, but then hovered his thumb over the keys in thought. Suddenly, before he could think of a reason to stop himself, he pulled out his little black notebook and flicked to the latest page where Sam had written down a phone number. Punching down on the pad, he held the mobile up to his ear with unexpected nervousness.

The line clicked through.

“Fuck up number one: you turned your phone on.” He got in first.

“How did you get my number?” Clara’s cold voice cut through the line.

“I mean, that’s not counting your first fuck up – that was going all Kanye fucking West on the press - but I thought it would be nicer to just count that as Fuck Up Ground Zero and just build up from there.” He continued unabated.

“Much nicer. How did you get my number?” She curtly repeated.

“I’m the fucking Wizard of Oz. I’m the guy behind the fucking curtains of this government, I only have to click my Italian leather heels three times and I can get any phone number I want.”

“Whatever.” She huffed impatiently. “I’m hanging up now.”

“You don’t want to know why I rang?”

“I presume it was to check on how I was faring with my drowning.”

“You presume right.”

“You’re a sadist.”

“And you’re a masochist.” He countered. “Seems we make quite the pair.”

“Well I guess I am a bit of a masochist if I’m sitting here listening to the man who just fifteen minutes ago was threatening to destroy my very existence.”

“Not my fucking fault your chose to go after my party in fucking public, is it?”

“Loyal, much?”

“More loyal than you, if you’re going to support the fucking Eton-inbred establishment of fucking castrated fops.” Malcolm spat.

“I’m loyal to my _students_.” Clara fought back. “And I will do anything I can to get them a better education. So if you want to go ahead and change your stupid policy then congratulations: I’ll support your party all the way!”

“How fucking gracious of you.” He snarled.

“The Mail seemed to think so.” Her voice teased. “In fact they’ve just offered me a full page spread.”

“More like full page picture of you bending over the desk with your fucking tits hanging out.” Malcolm grumbled. “Mail’s the fucking opposite of what you want. You want to appear like the dignified teacher who actually knows what the fuck she’s talking about. You want the Times or BBC. But not the fucking kale-munching fag hags from the Guardian either: that’d just be preaching to the limp wristed choir.”

There was a small silence over the line.

“Are you trying to help me?” She questioned, confused.

Malcolm’s mind went blank. “I’m fucking just trying to make my destruction of you a bit more entertaining on my end. Give me more of a fun fight if you’re not already flailing on the ground to begin with, like some fucking quadriplegic lamb with a big old fucking target painted on its back.”

“How very sweet of you.” She deadpanned.

“Sweeter than fucking tooth decay.” He relaxed into the seat of the taxi as the corner of his lips threatened to turn upwards. “So what kind of dirt do I have to look forward to digging up then? Involved in any Young Fascist rallies? Experimented with psychotics at a fucking Eyes Wide Shut orgy?”

“I’m sorry to say you’ll find my past rather boring, actually.”

“Well you know how to lower a man’s flag quick.” He sighed. “No bother, the tabloids will eat up my little crap pancakes of insinuation for breakfast. Who needs facts when the entire industry’s trying to scratch itself out of a fucking grave? Any particular smear you’d like to veto?”

“Not being a Nazi is always a good thing.”

“Sex fiend it is then. Best warn your dad not to read tomorrow’s paper.”

“Thanks for the tip.” She replied dryly.

“You know all this could be avoided if you just put out a simple fucking two sentence statement retracting your rant.” He tried again.

“It also could be avoided if you change your education policy to actually help the students learn rather than meet some arbitrary number set by an out-of-touch bureaucracy.” Her voice became stern again.

“That’s one fucking press-ready sound bite you’ve practiced there.”

“It is, isn’t it?” He could hear her smirk over the line. “I think I might pass it on to whatever party is worthy – I’m sure the opposition will be giving me a phone call in a minute, I’ll get back to you later and tell you what they think of it.”

Malcolm couldn’t help the twisted smile that rose on his lips. “You know, I’m almost fucking tempted to just let you go like some fucking over-inflated balloon, just to watch you deflate with fucking violent farts of utter cluelessness.”

“Well at least my students would get a laugh out of that.”

“It’s always about the fucking _students_ with you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s almost like I’m an actual _teacher_.”

Malcolm beamed in the corner of the taxi when a beep interrupted over the phone line, snapping him back to reality. Call waiting. He had to take it. But he didn't want to. Why the fuck didn’t he want to? Just finish the fucking conversation and move on. He made his point and she wasn’t budging. He had to hang up.

Hang up.

“Well like I said: If you don’t retract, then I fucking react.” His voice lowered. “A fucking shit storm heading your way from the Downing St direction, the likes of which you cannot even fucking fathom. Bring an umbrella.”

We quickly switched to the next call before he could think.

“Malc!” The Prime Minister’s voice appeared from the other line.

“Mr Tom Davies!” Malcolm tried to regain his head. “How was your Cabinet meeting?”

“Fucking rotten.” He huffed. “Even with the boost in the polls.”

“Well sir, all we need to do is fucking drag them screaming over the election line, then we can have a good old fashioned cull once we’re back in office.”

“You’re right.” He grumbled. “I know you’re right. But I also know the Cabal is still here, just waiting to spring up at the slightest weakness. I mean that education girl – the teacher from yesterday – I can just tell they want to get her on their side.”

“Not if I have any fucking say in it.” Malcolm steeled his voice.

“Good. Good. So you’re going to handle her then?”

Malcolm’s mouth twitched. “She’ll be a rotting political corpse in no time.”

“ _No time_ is not quick enough. I need her gone. We’ve got enough troubles as it is without her stirring up the pot. One more sign of weakness and this party will crumble.”

“Consider her gone already, sir.”

“Where would I be without you Malcolm?”

“In a fucking hell-scape of idiots and hypocrites too frightening to even imagine.”

“No doubt you’re right. See you tomorrow.” He promptly hung up, leaving Malcolm alone in the taxi, still crawling through traffic.

It was sorted. He was going to destroy Clara Oswald.

He fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

 _Clara Oswald_.

Impossible fucking girl.

Should he have mentioned to the PM his conversations with her? No. Why should he? Not like he needs to give a detailed account of all his fucking minutes of his day – he just needed to do his job. He needed to fix problems. Problems like Clara.

He rubbed his chin with his hand. What the fuck was that conversation anyway? He could have sworn for a moment there, just talking to her, he almost felt… _comfortable_. But that couldn’t be fucking right. It must have just been that all the fucks he had given over her retracting her statement had vanished faster than fucking Jude Law’s hairline.

The taxi finally pulled up outside the gate of Downing St, and Malcolm got out and walked through security to number 10 with thoughts still swirling in his head like some maddening mess.

He even fucking smiled when he was talking to her.

But it must have been his smile over the potential of fresh fucking meat.

It must have been.

Before he realised he was walking in auto-drive he was already halfway down the hallway to his office when Jamie popped out from on of the doors, waving a large envelope.

“Fresh, steaming shit: ready to fling!” He handed the envelope to Malcolm with a grin.

“Jamie my dear, if you weren’t fucking married I’d fucking snog you right now.” He said drolly as he opened the envelope to peer inside.

“Who knows, the Missus could find it a turn on.” Jamie mused as he followed Malcolm into his office and watched as he pulled out a photo of Clara from the package. “Teacher Tantrum isn’t all fucking justice and purity rings…” He began as Malcolm sat down at his desk, still studying the photo. “She started out as an Au-Pair and almost fucking burned the one of her family’s kitchens down like a regular fucking Mary Pyro. Also there’s old rumours hidden in the backlogs of Facebook that she had a thing with her history professor in university, so she definitely does know from experience the benefits of getting a fucking _hands-on_ education.”

Malcolm slipped her photo back in the envelope. “Put that in the fucking headline.”

Jaime waited expectedly. “Want me to ship it out on the leaky boat?”

“I’m giving DoSAC a routine colonoscopy this afternoon, I’ll hand it over to them to send out. Maybe it will finally teach those fucking hacks what their mothers obviously forgot to – that they’ve got to wipe their own fucking arses after they decide to take a massive dump on their own party. Fucked if I’m going to be their fucking bidet anymore.”

“I’ll stock up on fucking air fresheners for you then.” Jamie quipped as he headed out the door but Malcolm just replied with a humph.

He flicked the envelope in his hand, considering it for a moment, then put it down on the pile of folders and notebooks that were his constant companion. He stared at the envelope again, considering its contents, when his thoughts wandered back to those stupid fucking giant eyes, glaring through him in defiance.

Fuck it.

He grabbed the envelope from the top of the pile then unlocked his personal draw in his desk, shoved it underneath the mess of notes hidden inside, then closed it back up and locked it with a soft click.

He was totally fucked up now.


	4. Chapter 4

The morning sun began to crack through the window, as Clara lay flat on her back in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, just as she had been doing for last three hours.

How could she sleep when there was a tempest raging in her head, a tempest she was terrified she would be swallowed up by?

She had never felt this out of control. What was she thinking, throwing her life out into the public arena? She had no idea if they would support her or turn her back on her; how they would portray her, if they would betray her – it was all out of her hands.

This was not her. She had to get a handle on this.

But on the other hand, she couldn’t just let it go; not with so many children’s futures at risk.

Her mind flashed with the faces of bright but troubled kids, whose eyes had been dulled by the school’s restrictions, and who she still felt a pang of guilt over when they gave up and dropped out. If she had even a chance of harnessing this media storm and channelling it into becoming a force for change, if had even a chance of saving one kid from thinking they weren’t smart enough for a real education – then she had to keep going. She just had to figure out a way to gain control.

Clara furrowed her brow and stared harder at the ceiling. If she agreed to meet with the opposition, as they had rung up and politely asked her to do the night before, she could have some sort of bargaining power with the government.

As long as she didn’t appear to support the opposition fully.

Clara shuddered under her covers. If they came into power than she would never forgive herself. Also the opposition would no doubt reverse any promise they made to her in an instant the moment they got into office.

No, it was a better of two evils situation, and the only way this was going to work was if she convinced the ruling party to change their policy.

She would just have to play the two parties off each other.

Clara groaned in frustration and ran her fingers roughly through her hair, as the gruff Scottish voice that had tormented her all night ghosted through her thoughts yet again.

You’re naïve sweetheart. You’ve got no fucking clue what you’re up against.

He was right. She knew he was right. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to smack the smirk off that angry bitter owl’s face and prove him wrong.

She shifted in the bed, abruptly moving to her side and curling the blankets up to her chin with a tightening grip. She needed to stop thinking about him. She had a political chess game to figure out.

And yet as hard as she tried her thoughts swept back to his deep rumbling voice, his sharp authoritative fingers, and his frankly ridiculously bristled eyebrows.

The edge of Clara’s mouth tweaked upwards involuntarily as she remembered when he shouted at her, the way his brow wriggled around his expressive face like a furious caterpillar.

He intrigued her; she wasn’t going to deny it. Especially after that strange phone call, ringing her up straight after he essentially cursed her to the eighth circle of hell. She had sat in a surreal daze for a moment after he hung up, trying to fathom what had just happened. The bubbling within her chest could almost be described as giddiness – but it couldn’t be. And she couldn’t have felt a thrill when she teased him over the phone. And he couldn’t have had a moment when he was actually trying to help her, giving her that advice.

No, she was imagining things. Especially since she knew this morning’s newspapers had no doubt already painted her as a complete nutter– a nice welcome present from the government’s own Darth Vader.

Her alarm buzzed next her, jolting her back from her thoughts. No use trying to hide from it, she resolved as she propped herself up in her bed - she got herself into this mess; she would get herself out again.

With a newfound sense of steely determination, she hopped out of bed and marched through her well-practiced morning routine, when just as she was pouring her second tea in a travel mug her mobile began to ring. The first of many to come, she sighed. Creeping to kitchen table, she peered over her phone to see that she didn’t recognise the number, while she waited for it to ring out.

It didn’t take her long the day before to figure out a system on how to handle all the calls – let them ring out, then listen to the voice mails. That way she could weed out all the crap, and have the chance to plan before she talked to anyone.

The phone was finally silenced, with one final beep indicating that a message had been left. Clara picked up her bags and closed the lid to the travel mug then finally grabbed her phone and headed out the door. With a small pause of trepidation, she clicked on to the waiting voice mail and clipped down the stairs.

“Oh, good morning Ms Oswald.” She almost fell down the steps as she recognised the voice on the message. “This is Nicola Murray, the ah Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship. We met at the Coal Hill press conference – I mean, I um, I was the one who asked you that question… So I was wondering if you had a chance for us to meet up? It would be just great to sit down and listen to what you had to say and your experience… it would… it would be great. So I hope you can meet me, please give me a call on this number whenever you can. Thank you.”

The message cut out, leaving Clara frozen on the stairs in utter confusion.

What on earth was the minister she had publically embarrassed doing, trying to meet with her, wanting to hear her opinion? It must be some sort of trick, she thought, finally finding her legs and continuing down the stairs. Tucker must have been pulling some strings to go along with the dirt flinging. She needed to figure out was he was up to; she needed to see the papers.

Skipping out of the door, Clara headed down the street to the newsstand down the road to gain some clarification. The shop owner didn’t look up as she finally reached the stand displaying all the morning’s newspapers. She scanned the front pages quickly: nothing there. She picked up the Daily Mail, bracing herself for the worst, yet when she flicked through the trash filled pages; she could find no mention of her. This couldn’t be right.

Clara picked up the Times instead, but there was only a piece on the growing popularity of the video and the silence of the PM. She tried the Guardian, but there was nothing besides a government advisor tweeting a hash tag she apparently inspired. The Mirror just had pictures of t-shirts festooned with the print: #educatedontregulate.

Clara smacked down the papers. This wasn’t right. Malcolm Tucker had promised to destroy her.

“Hey.” The shop owner snapped her back from her thoughts as he called out from his chair. “You’re that woman from the YouTube, aren't ya?”

She flicked her eyes to him and gave a clipped smile. “Ah… yeah. I’ve also bought a paper here every day for the past three years”

The man seemed to ignore her as leaned back in his folding chair pompously. “Yes…the bastards needed a good kick up the bum – good on ya.”

“Thanks.” Clara murmured in forced politeness then quickly turned away down the street, trying to get her thoughts together. Why hadn’t Malcolm Tucker unleashed the smear campaign on her? She knew the lack of any dirty laundry wouldn’t heed his tenacious crusade against her, so why the silence?

There was only one way to find out. Pulling out her phone from her pocket, she scanned the call history from the day before when she finally settled upon the right call at the right time. Served him right for not blocking his number.

She tried to ignore the flutter of excitement that flushed through her chest as she held the phone up to her ear and listened to the ringing.

“If it isn’t Ms Krabappel: The Early Years.” Malcolm Tucker grumbled through the line. “To what do I owe the displeasure? You about to bring out your trusty discipline ruler?”

“I just saw this morning’s papers.”

“Oh? You mean those papery blog things they used to wrap up fucking Fish and Chips with?” He dodged smoothly. “That’s a fucking rare find, sweetheart – best tweet a fucking selfie with them.”

“I’m not in them. I mean I am, but there’s none of the smear campaign you promised. What’s going on?” She tried.

“What the fuck makes you think I’d tell you?” He rebuffed gruffly. “What, you expect me to go on some fucking monologue explaining all my fucking plans to you like some fucking turrets Bond villain?”

“I could hope.”

“Well I’m afraid today isn’t your lucky day.”

“I dunno, it kind of seems like it is.” She couldn’t help herself from goading him; it was just too easy, and too strangely enjoyable.

“Don’t get too cocky now.” He growled over the line, in a way that was almost seductive. “You forget I’ve got a knife sharper than fucking Bendybut Cunterfuck’s cheekbones, just waiting to castrate you.”

“And yet you haven’t cut me down.” She felt a smile rise to her lips. “Are you becoming a little attached to me?”

“Yeah like a fucking tumour.” He grumbled.

She couldn’t help but grin as she leaned on a garden fence and listened to the silence between them with an unexpected sense of ease.

“You’ve organised a meeting with the opposition.” He finally spoke out.

“I have.”

“Well if anything’s going to fucking convince you you’ve made a huge cock-up and release a reversal statement, it’s meeting up with those fraudulent fucks.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Yes. Please do do whatever I say – it would remove a fucking pain in my arse usually reserved for fucking low fat muffins and Piers Morgan.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” She teased. “I like this better: you make empty threats and I go happily on my way.”

“My threats as empty as a fucking black hole – and you’ve just reached event fucking horizon.” He growled.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to do as much as I can before I get sucked in.” She said proudly. “Nice sparring with you as always, Mr Tucker.”

“Gone so soon?”

“I’ve got work to do.”

“It’s like watching fucking Tiny Tim playing round in a fucking incinerator.” He sighed gruffly. “Well, I’m going off to sharpen your own personal fucking sword of Damocles.”

“I look forward to seeing it.”

“Fuck off.”

“And good morning to you too.”

She hung up with a smile. This was good. This was very good. She had managed to gain the upper hand, and she knew exactly how to make her next play.

Rushing back to the newsstand, she grabbed a copy of the Guardian and flicked a quick coin at the attendant. She quickly flicked through the pages until she found the article she was looking for. A government advisor of a cabinet minister had tweeted in support of her video, even using the stupid trending hashtag. The division in the government had reared its ugly head once more, and she now knew how to take advantage of it.

She grinned as she took out her phone again, wondering what Malcolm would think if he saw her now, before quickly stopping herself.

Why was she thinking about him?

She shook her thoughts away and focused on the phone to the call she received that morning, when she brought it up to her ear and heard the line click through.

“Hello Secretary Murray? Yes, it’s Clara Oswald. I’m just calling to say I’d be happy to sit down with you.”


	5. Chapter 5

“He didn’t shake the fucking baby.” Malcolm paced in his office, hand in his hair as he gripped his phone tight to his ear. “He just had a bit of a fucking jig, you know? Not like whatever the fuck you’re making it out to be; like he used the kid as a fucking meat covered fucking Kinder Surprise, trying to listen to what’s inside like some geriatric Hannibal Lector…

…You’ve got less journalistic integrity than fucking Nixon’s mummified left ball sack. And if you think I’ll be coming back to you with exclusives anymore then you better fucking take that old stick from out your arse, shove it straight up your nose and fucking swizzle it round like _you’re_ shaking a fucking baby, and give yourself a fucking prefrontal lobotomy cause you’re fucking delusional.”

Malcolm waited impatiently as the journalist finally surrendered. “ _Thank you_.” He gritted in forced pleasantness. “See, that wasn’t so fucking hard was it? I mean, off the record: the crusty old cunt hasn’t been near children since he learned how not to shit in his pants. But then again he’s fucking degenerating back to that stage so maybe it’s time to surround himself with fucking bairns again.”

The door to his office suddenly opened, causing him to whip his gaze around but then give a small groan of annoyance when he saw it was Julius Nicholson, balancing the world’s fucking daintiest tea cup and saucer in his hand, complete with a fucking biscuit.

“Well I’d love to stay and chat…” Malcolm continued to the phone as he tracked Julius like a hawk as he entered the room and sat himself presumptuously on a chair. “…but a fucking six foot baby just lumbered into my office, and _on_ the record: this one deserves a good fucking shake.” He quickly hung up his mobile and moved to his own chair, glaring at his new visitor. “I was just questioning the gods if they could make my day any fucking worse, and here you appear; like my own fucking crane delivered sack of biscuit dotted shit, right on my fucking door step.”

“Well Malcolm.” Julius began with a sickeningly soft voice. “I would apologise profusely for staining your Welcome Mat, but I suspect you are not the type to own one, _mmh_?”

Malcolm sat down with a quizzical brow. “Did you just try to make a joke?”

“Despite what you may believe, I am not completely insusceptible to the funnies.” He took a delicate sip of his tea.

“Nor am _I_ completely insusceptible to punching you in the face.”

“Now, now, Malcolm: no need to get violent.” Julius tsked calmly.

“I’m so sorry.” He put his hands up in exaggerated apology. “It’s just, something about the curvature of your under-developed head reminds me of this fucking advisor who keeps leaving fucking biscuit crumbs everywhere like a fucking diabetic Hansel and Gretel, and won’t let me do my fucking job in peace… _oh wait!_ ” Malcolm pointed at him, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, very funny.” Julius carefully rested his teacup on his lap. “Or at least it would be if I didn’t have an extremely important purpose to fulfil.”

“Well fuck me, please do tell – it’s always been fucking beyond me as to what purpose you have.” Malcolm leaned forward in feigned interest.

“I have just spoken to the Prime Minister.” He started, sitting up in the seat. “And may I say, he is quite concerned about the way you’re handling certain things.”

Malcolm tensed up. “What, like the way I’m handling my cock?”

“Do you mind if we spare the crudeness for just one mome-”

“I know all of the PM’s concerns.” Malcolm glared.

“Really?” Julian just raised a dainty eyebrow.

“Of course I fucking do.” He waved off. “We’re tighter than fucking Mother Teresa’s twat. He rings me more than a teenage girl in heat.”

“Interesting…” Julius picked up his teacup to rest on Malcolm’s desk then stole away the biscuit. “He didn’t mention any of that to me when we just chatted.”

“That’s because we talk about _you_ behind your back.” Malcolm shrugged. “Don’t want you finding out and drowning your sorrows by fucking diving into a whole shipping crate of Jaffa Cakes and Hobnobs– you’ve got a big enough fucking lard to skin ratio as it is.”

“No, see, I don’t believe you’re telling the complete truth now Malcolm.” Julius said patronisingly. “Tom had quite the grumpy face when I saw him.”

“Fucking _Tom_?” Malcolm snorted in disbelief. “When did you two get so close, did you just strap on knee pads and open wide?”

“I am going to ignore that last comment by answering your initial question, and that is: we have become close because he has come to the opinion that I am very good at my job. His opinion of you, however, has been quite diminished, since he has failed to see any action on the smear campaign against Miss Clara Oswald.”  
Malcolm instantly felt his stomach tighten by the mention of the young woman who would not leave his mind, no matter how hard he tried. “The fuck you mean?” He stilled, glaring at him from over his desk.

“Tom said that you assuredhim that she would be _‘taken care of’_ , as they say.”

“That’s cause she will.”

“Well he’s not too chuffed with your progress.”

“I’m sorry, do you want to fucking take charge of the spin department now? Fucking resign and spend your life dealing with the fucking soulless press like fucking Seven Years in Twat-bet? How dare you come in here and tell me how to do my fucking job. Stay in your lane fucking Wanker Racer.”

Julius just sat up in the chair, unfazed. “I may be sneaking a small tippy toe over your line here, but this is becoming a much larger issue. An advisor of one of the members of the Cabal had tweeted in support for this pontificating pedagogue. We both know the faction has been biding their time, waiting for a moment of weakness to strike – they may think this viral sensation is their chance.”

“They’re three fuckers with inferiority complexes, we’re the party with 53% approval – they’re not going to scuttle their own fucking boat while it’s still floating.”

“Not if this education thing builds more of a following. If we go down in the polls they just increase their raison d'etre. We could be up excrement creek before we realised they’ve already stolen the paddle and escaped to dry land without us.”

“No one’s joining the fucking Cabal under my watch.” Malcolm asserted.

“Well you’re making it easier by not cutting the source of the rot to begin with, aren’t you?” Julius countered smugly.

“So being a fucking castrated manatee makes you the authority on _cutting_?” He shot back, unamused. “You should know then to take your tumourus toes back over that line now otherwise I’ll hack them off with my rustiest fucking choice of axe in fucking phalangic carnage.” He stood up from his chair and placed two firm hands on his desk to tower over Julius, who remained unfazed. “ _I_ am the Spin Master. I know _exactly_ what I’m doing here. But your swollen fucking head cannot fathom strategy if Napoleon hit it with a fucking chessboard, so let me give you little personal guided tour into the mind of a Machiavellian master, just to calm your fucking fat tits a little: The closer Miss Clara Oswald gets to the opposition, the more the public views their support for her – the more damage we cause when we take her down. She’s like our own personal fucking suicide bomber, yeah? The deeper she moves in, the bloodier it gets.”

Malcolm stared at Julius intensely, studying his face in desperate hope that his excuse be believed. But luckily he was too good at lying, as always.

Julius slowly put down his tea and touched his hands together with a thoughtful nod. “You still haven’t answered my question about the Cabal recruiting members though, _hmm_?”

“I’ll take a fucking A-Bomb to that pathetic game of Whack-A-Mole and fucking eviscerate the entire land if one of those fuckers decides to peek its traitorous head up. That a good enough answer for you?” Malcolm glared.

Julius just gave a self-satisfied smile. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

“Well then this whole back and forth build up to that has then been a complete fucking waste of time - which, now I think about it, it’s a waste every single time you decide to curse me with your presence.”

Julius stood up and primly smoothed down his jacket. “Me and the Prime Minister will wait for your strategic ruination with bated breath.”

Malcolm’s mouth twisted into a forced smile. “Now you’re tempting me to draw it out longer just to see you asphyxiate.”

“A pleasure as always, Malcolm.” Julius nodded then turned to trot out the door.

“Well it’s certainly a pleasure to have you leave.” Malcolm glowered after him until he closed the door, leaving him alone in his office.

Malcolm collapsed into his chair in a huff and ran his bony fingers through his short greying curls and down his face. All this for one fucking girl in a fucking skirt with her stupid fucking stubbornness. He never felt this frustrated. He hated it. He had to get rid of her.

 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

Clara strolled confidently through the DoSAC offices after asking for the directions to the Secretary of State’s office. She could feel pairs of eyes look up from their computers in startled recognition as she walked past, causing a smug little smile to play on her lips. Everything was going exactly to plan.

Taking one last fortifying breath, she made her way up to the desk outside the Secretary’s private office and gave a charming smile to the plump woman sitting on the other side.

“Good morning, my name’s Clara Oswald – I have an appointment with Nicola Murray.”

“No.” The woman’s head shot up from her screen. “No, sorry, I’m actually not the receptionist.”

“Oh.” Clara faltered.

The woman leaned forward in her chair conspiratorially. “Have they been telling you I’m the receptionist?”

“No.”

“I bet they have.” The woman ignored her as Clara watched her quizzically. “The people here have absolutely _no_ respect for the Civil Service. You put in your hours, you do your job, and where does that get you, hmm?”

“Nowhere?” She attempted.

“Exactly.” The woman asserted.

“Terri, you old sentient sponge-cake!” A lanky young man with a tuft of dark brown hair appeared by the desk, waving a document. “Could you send this statement off to the press if it doesn’t interfere with your plus size knickers knitting party planning?”

The woman now known as Terri whipped the paper from the man’s hand begrudgingly. “You could have just said please.”

“Could’ve said a lot of things.” The man shrugged, then finally looked up to acknowledge Clara. “She wasn’t bothering you abou---oh my god.” His eyes suddenly widened in realisation. “You’re the teacher, the one from the school with the YouTube video.”

She put on a curt smile. “That’s me.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I-”

“Miss Oswald!” Nicola Murray jutted in as she arrived, huffing, through the office, her eyes wide in thinly veiled panic. “I meant to meet you downstairs.” She glanced a look at the thin man, whose shocked face instantly darkened.

“Oh.” Clara smiled, knowing exactly what complication her ‘mistake’ had caused. “Sorry about that.”

“No matter.” Nicola waved a hand in forced nonchalance. “Would you, um, like to step in my office?”

“Of course.” Clara turned and walked to the private office when she overheard a burst of angry whispers behind her.

“ _What the fuck is little red ranting hood doing here?”_

 _“I don’t have to answer that_.”

“ _When you place my balls on the line with you here, yes you kind of do.”_

_“We’re just having a chat, that’s all.”_

_“You do know that phrase about keeping enemies close is complete bullocks.”_

_“I know what I’m doing.”_

_“Wait--- you’re joining the Cabal.”_

_“I am not.”_

_“Yes you… oh we’re fucked.”_

_“No we’re not.”_

_“You’ve got the subtlety of a fucking dubstep foghorn. Everyone’s going to know now.”_

_“It’s just a chat.”_

_“Last words-”_

“My apologies.” Nicola spoke up as she slammed the door shut on her advisor, leaving her alone with Clara in the private office. “Just um… some boring logistical problems. Thank you for coming. Please, sit down.”

Clara gave a polite smile and moved to the chair. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Nicola darted a nervous glance out of the glass wall as she walked to her desk. “I was just hoping to get your opinion on the government’s policies without a pack of press members leering around us like starved diabetics.”

“Yes.” She put on an innocent shrug. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. Actually a thought what you said really, really rang true to me and ah, what I aim to achieve in office.”

“Well, if you agree with what I said, does that also mean you’d be willing to bring about a change in the Prime Minister’s thinking then?” Clara tried.

Nicola seemed to be knocked off balance a little. “Well… um… see that’s a little-”

But before she could go on, the door opened, revealing the same young advisor from before, this time with a deathly pale face. “Nicola can I… just a moment.” The advisor’s voice trembled.

Clara remained in her chair as she watched Nicola scurry from her desk to lean her ear close to the young man’s whispers, when her face fell in matching terror.

“ _Shit._ ” Nicola whispered under her breath, as she turned her head away from Clara in an attempt to hide her reaction. “ _Shiting shit_.” She then swung back to Clara with a strained smile, her hands clasped together tight. “Would you like a coffee? There’s a great coffee place outside. Let’s get coffee.”

“Um…ok.” Clara agreed in surprise, then slowly rose from her chair as she watched the two curiously.

“Good! Great! Off we pop!” Nicola hurried her along as she walked between them and out the door.

“That way!” The advisor redirected them both away from the main pathway through the office, causing them to turn abruptly. Clara tried to keep up with Nicola’s ever-increasing pace as they scampered down the hallway, her eyes wide in bemusement. Suddenly Nicola froze in her spot, causing Clara to bump in to her, not that Nicola even noticed, as she was already turning around and waving her hands in panic.

“ _Back!_ ” She whispered forcefully at her advisor. “ _Back back back!_ ”

And so they scurried back from where they came from, the Secretary and the advisor’s heads darting round like paranoid chickens while Clara was forced along between them in utter confusion.

“ _I warned you!_ ” The advisor shot out in a hush from in front.

“ _Oh shut it Nostradamdick!_ ” Nicola huffed behind her when the advisor stopped them in their tracks just as they passed the lift.

“Fuck. Quick. The lift.” The young man herded them to the metal doors.

“No way!” Nicola protested loudly. “Not happening.”

The advisor groaned in frustration. “You have a fucking death wish?”

“No! _That_ ’s why I want to take the stairs.”

“Oh just get the hell in there!” He pushed them through the opening then twisted his hand through to the inside controls, hammering down the close door button, while Nicola stilled beside Clara, gripping on to the railing till her hand turned white. The metal doors finally began to close and the advisor whipped his hand out from the lift and disappeared.

With a dull thud and a soft ding, they were alone in the lift. Nicola let out a small breath.

“Ok.” She whispered to herself. “Ok. Sorry ab—”

But there was another ding.

Clara could sense Nicola sinking beside her as the metal doors began to crawl open, revealing the tall dark figure that seemed so familiar to her now, clutching on to the lanky advisor’s shoulder and glaring darkly at Nicola.

“Secretary Strumpe—” Malcolm Tucker began, when all of a sudden his gaze caught on Clara and his eyebrows immediately shot up in surprise. “ _You._ ” She felt a shiver down her spine as his eyes burrowed through her, while his hand fell from the advisor’s shoulder, putting all of his focus on her unexpected appearance. But then something clicked behind his eyes, and he instantly turned to Nicola with an accusing finger. “ _You_! The _fuck_ you doing with her?” The veins popped out from his neck as swung his finger to Clara. “The fuck you doing with _her_? The fuck is happening here?”

“I…” Nicola managed to stutter. “Can… can we just step out of the lift?”

Malcolm’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re fucking staying where the fuck you are until you tell me the fucking story morning flaccid glory! What the fuck are you fucking doing here?”

Nicola’s face flashed white. “I just thought we should have a chat.” She tried weakly.

“A fucking _chat_?” Malcolm spat. “What is this, fucking _Tea With Mussolini?_ You thought you’d actually fucking get a away with this fucking Judy Wench?”

“I…I…” The minister stammered, as Malcolm continued to glower at her, but then his eyes flicked back to Clara for a brief moment.

“Right. Fucked if I’m going to try and deal with a pile of stuttering shit.” He turned back to Nicola. “Fuck off back to your office, collect your fucking words and then fucking whittle yourself a quick fucking coffin while you wait, cause I’m going to give you the fucking evisceration of a lifetime!”

Nicola remained frozen.

“M _ove,_ Yoko Fuck-no!” He shouted, causing her to jump slightly before she scurried out of the lift. Clara took a step towards the door when she was met by Malcolm’s stern finger.

“Not you. We need to chat.” He said coldly as the doors closed in on them and he pressed the emergency stop button, leaving them locked in the metal box together.

Silence fell between them as he avoided her gaze and she watched his long, worn figure shuffle from corner to corner of the small enclosed space, his brow furrowed deep, his sharp nose flaring. She knew she was in trouble, but she couldn’t help but almost feel glad to see him again, to be able to study his strange, perplexing features, to poke at him, just to see how he’d react. She was in trouble, but she was loving it.

“What are you doing?” She broke the silence, eyes still following him.

“I’m pacing.” He grumbled.

“Doesn’t look like pacing.”

“Well don’t you just have an opinion on everything!” He finally looked up. “Why don’t you go write a fucking book called _1001 Opinions You Never Fucking Wanted and That Fuck Everything Up_ then fucking throw it out of a fucking B-52 over London so it can fucking fall on people’s heads like a fucking unwanted opinion?”

“Not your best analogy.” Clara judged.

“What the fuck did I _just_ say?”

She calmly studied his strained face. “Are you cross with me?”

“ _No!_ Whyever would I be cross with _you_ , you who’ve made my last few days more frustrating than fucking…fucking _US politics_!”

“Then why haven’t you just launched your smear campaign and gotten rid of me?”

Malcolm stilled for a second, his mouth twisting with unsaid words, until he straightened and up an accusing finger. “Don’t fucking try and turn this around on me, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re a fucking idiot.”

Clara stiffened. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah like a fucking drunk badger performing brain surgery.” He huffed than turned to her, eyes searching. “Do you have any conception of how fucked you are? Do you know how many vampiric vultures there are out there fucking baying for your blood on a fucking plate?”

“I do. Do _you_ know how delicately your own party bound together? One small tap in the right place and it could all fall to dust.”

“You’re _really_ not in the right place to be making fucking threats here sweetheart. This party goes down, it’ll turning into a fucking rabid dog without a leash, and it’ll rip the throat out of _anyone_ who slighted them. Just fucking save yourself while you can, and put out a reversal statement.”

“No.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I know I can win.” She shrugged in simple admission.

“No you fucking can’t.” Malcolm glowered, taking a step towards her.

“Well I’m set in my way now, so your welcome to throw dirt at me whenever.” She defied.

“Maybe I will.” His voice darkened as his eyes became sharp. “Maybe I’ll start off with the professor, your little bowtie boyfriend.” Clara instantly tightened in panic, but Malcolm continued, edging in closer to her personal space. “Did you seduce him? Crush his little tweed heart when he found out you were only using him for good marks?”

Clara stewed as the pain of the past hit her chest like an icy hammer. “Don’t you dare.” She warned coldly.

“Oh I fucking _do_ dare.” Malcolm’s brow popped up in challenge. “And I will dare even fucking further. So stop this fucking power trip and put out a reversal statement.”

She tried to stamp out the roar of thoughts telling her to give up, but then she inched closer to him, lifting her chin to stare straight into his piecing eyes.

“No.”

“Put out the statement.”

“Change your policy.”

“I’ll destroy you.”

“I know you won’t.”

“You don’t know me.”

“And you underestimate me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

The inches between them thrummed with a tense electricity, when all of a sudden she saw Malcolm’s eyes dart down to her lips. Blood throbbed through her ears. His hot breath ghosted over her skin. Before she could think, their lips relented and closed the gap between them, meeting in a hard, heated kiss. Clara’s hands instinctively snaked their way up his chest and grabbed tightly at the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, to which he responded in kind, sprawling a large palm over the small of her back. Clara’s mind was blank. There was nothing but the intoxicating feel of him, the taste, the smell, the warmth. His tongue lightly skimmed over the seal of her lips and she started to ease them open in acceptance when-

“Hello, building security here: Is there a problem?” A tinny voice invaded the left, crashing them back to reality as their eyes shot open, freezing as their arms were still wrapped around the other.

What had just happened?

“Hello?” The disembodied voice continued, as they leapt away from each other and backed off wearily to the opposite walls of the lift. “The emergency stop has been left on for three minutes, is everything ok?”

“Fine.” The both croaked in unison, eyes still linked as they tried to search their way out of the heady mist of confusion.

The security guard continued talking and the lift groaned back into action, but it was all white noise to the sound of their breaths as they stared at the other.

“That was…” Malcolm started, eyes open in wonder.

“Unexpected.”


	6. Chapter 6

Malcolm stared at Clara from the opposite wall of the lift, taking in the way her small chest rose and fell with her breath, the rose coloured flush of her round cheeks, the deep pools of her eyes, wide with surprise – every single detail he could absorb to prove to himself that he wasn’t dreaming, that this was real, that he did actually kiss that small, passionate, infuriating woman – and, more importantly, that she kissed him back.

She kissed him back.

Why would she kiss him back?

“That was…” The words tumbled from his mouth then quickly dried up as he still struggled to comprehend what just happened.

“Unexpected.” Her sweet voice finished for him.

“But…” He couldn’t stop himself from continuing. “…good.”

A small smile tweaked the corner of her soft lips. “Too good.” She almost whispered in agreement, causing his shrivelled heart to skip.

Malcolm unwittingly began to mirror her smile, when the now hated lift bell rang out once more, and the metal doors began to open, wrenching them back into the real world.

Malcolm shot up from the wall, his face instantly switching back to the cold, commandeering mask. Two government workers peered in, waiting for the lift. He had to get out. From the corner of his sight he could see Clara freezing in awkwardness. Now. He had to get out now. With a soft, courteous cough, Clara took a stiff step forward and out of the lift, and before he knew it he was following along, keeping a safe, unsuspicious distance between them as he moved alongside her, walking down the office corridor in an excruciatingly uncomfortable silence.

His eyes kept flicking down to Clara in observant hesitation, the only crack in his professional façade. She was avoiding his gaze, understandably so, but he couldn’t help but look at her anyway – that perplexing nose and her tormenting lips: he couldn’t just leave it like this. The outside world seemed to weigh down on him with an unbearable pressure. He couldn’t stand it, being this close to her, knowing how it felt to be near her – and then being denied that electric proximity by a herd of clueless government fucks who had nothing better to do but stare at him blankly and chew on fucking copy paper. Frustration turned to anger as he glared at the faces around the office, but then he darted back down to Clara.

Still avoiding. Still stunned.

But he needed more.

Without a second thought, he reached through the awkward space between them, wrapped his hand around her small arm, pulled her away from the intruding eyes of the office and into the closest room he could find.

For a brief moment, he gave thanks in relief that he had lucked out on an empty staff pantry, and that Clara had followed his lead for once, but these thoughts were instantly replaced by the insatiable desire for her lips; as he swiftly turned around, pushed her against the pantry door, and dove down to claim them with his own.

His heart leapt as her surprise quickly disappeared as she opened her mouth to him with a soft moan and gripped her hands around his back, challenging him to push her tighter to the door.

 _Always a fucking challenge_ , he smiled in his kiss. But he was already loosing too fast, drowning in the addictive enigma of her strength and softness. He needed to sort his thoughts out quick. And air. He needed air.

Reluctantly, he spread his two hands against the pantry door and pushed himself away from Clara’s lips, just slightly, so that his forehead hovered an inch above hers, as they sought to catch their breaths together.

“We should… stop.” Malcolm forced out with a rough voice, and attempted to push further away from her when two small hands shot up and buried themselves into his short curls.

“Definitely.” Clara purred in a far too seductive voice and pulled him down into another kiss. It was her turn now to push, edging him closer to the shelves of the pantry while he took the opportunity to ease he hands down along the curves of her body, until all of a sudden she pulled his head away from hers, their lips disconnecting with a small _pop_.

“No…” She murmured hoarsely, her hands slowly sliding down his neck to his shoulders – whether they were there to keep them apart or to keep her steady, he couldn’t say. “No… you’re right.” She continued, almost to herself, as she cautiously lifted her hands off his shoulders and took the furthest step away from him as she could in the small space of the pantry. “Time out.” She finally managed to catch her breath. “We just need… a time out.”

Malcolm’s body was flush with heat as he tried to calm his heart rate down, watching Clara in the dim light while she leaned against a stack of office grade instant coffee, her lips puffed and swollen, her fitted blouse untucked from her skirt. She was stunning. She was dangerous.

“You kissed me.” She broke the tense silence, her eyes seeking his for acknowledgment.

“You kissed me back.” He replied, still not believing the words, when he couldn’t help but give a small smirk. “Three times.”

“Don’t get too cocky.”

Malcolm raised a suggestive eyebrow.

“Shut up.” She glared playfully, then looked away to collect her thoughts, though not before he noticed her eyes flicker briefly down his body.

“So…” Clara tried casually. “Is this a habit of yours then? Snogging unsuspecting civilians next to the PG Tips?”

He could have laughed at the absurdity of it, were it not beginning to truly dawn on him just how magisterial the royal fuck up of a problem he was facing, because no – that was most definitely _not_ something he would usually do.

“Far from it.” He replied simply, darkly, causing a flash of panic to run through Clara’s face.

“Ok! So that means then that you…” She gestured to him with over-exaggerated hands to cover up her nerves. “You… like…me?”

“I do.” He found himself answering before he even considered the implications, when all of a sudden, something small and vulnerable inside him, long since considered lost and broken, swelled back into his chest. “Do you like me?”

“Well… I mean… you’re not without your certain… appeals.” She blushed slightly.

“Oh?”

“Nice taste in suits, for instance. That and your boggly eyes.”

“You can talk.”

“Oi! They’re Disney eyes!” She squeaked in defence.

“Right, cause _‘Cartoonish’_ is the benchmark you want to pursue in life.”

“So says Judge Frollo.”

“I’m sorry, are we doing the awkward banter thing right now?”

“Seems so.” She gave a wan smile. “But I guess it’s either that or bury ourselves deeper into a hole; so I’m happy to stick with bantering a little while longer. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind?” She offered up hopefully.

“About your eyes? Sorry sweetheart, they still look like you’ve been thrown out of the airlock.”

Clara instantly glared. “I meant the education policy.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up. “What, so one kiss from you would make me reverse my opinions on government policy like George Orwell’s Snow White? You’re a good kiss – a _really_ good kiss – but even you aren’t that good.”

“Don’t need a kiss to realise if you just change the policy, you could fix a broken system, give hope back to thousands of children, take the wind out of the government faction, and consolidate your lead in the polls – all in one fell sweep!”

“Since when did you turn into a tiny Thomas Cromwell?” He eyed her wearily, trying desperately not to be turned on by her enthusiasm for political machinations.

“Since I found a good teacher. “ She gave a small, flirtatious smile, causing him to clamp down on his distracting thoughts. The little minx, she knew exactly what she was doing. But he wasn’t going to let her win so easily.

“Well, you’re obviously not the brightest student, otherwise you’d have learned lesson number one: Don’t run into the fire.”

Clara just shrugged. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes you do!” Malcolm felt surprisingly irritated at her acceptance of her fate. “You can put it out, sneak around it, call the fire brigade, sit beside it on a lawn chair and roast marshmallows on it – not fucking _sprint_ into it carrying dry wood and tanks of oil like you seem determined to do.”

“So why haven’t you stopped me?”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do this whole time? I’ve been trying to warn you, I’ve been _protecting_ you – but you keep on insisting on flying in like a fucking kamikaze!”

“I don’t need your protection.” Clara bristled.

“Excuse me Little Miss Moppet, _yes you fucking do_.”

“Like some naïve little girl?”

“Pretty fucking much, _yeah_.”

“Fine. You want to protect me? You want to stop me running into the fire?” She stepped towards him in a challenge. “Change your policy.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the entire Government doesn’t answer to one little English teacher!”

“Or maybe it just doesn’t answer to _you_!”

A clean hit.

Silence cut between them as Malcolm’s stomach dropped.

That’s what she thought of him. A mere puppet.

But who was he to argue?

He felt exposed, vulnerable, helpless against those big eyes as they bored through him, straight through his well-maintained façade. He could strike back. He could turn it back on her and cover himself up against him arrogance and lies but he knew it would be hopeless from the start. She would know the truth.

His eyes flicked down away from hers in defeat.

“I…” Her soft voice filled the pantry, when he saw her feet step away.

Malcolm gave a heavy sigh as he looked up to her again. “This isn’t going to work, is it?” He forced the words from his lips.

Her eyes swelled up in sadness. “I don’t think so…” She let out softly, as if the realisation was only just forming in her mind.

“Fuck. Fine.” He tried to compose himself. “I’m done. No more phone calls or meetings, I’m staying away, you’re on your own.”

“Good.” She said weakly. “That would be better, right?”

“Right.”

“Right.”

They stood in silence for a moment, taking each other in, when finally Clara turned to the pantry door, and was about to open it up when she quickly looked back. “It was nice to meet you Malcolm…Despite everything.” She gave a small melancholic smile.

“You too.” He murmured, then before he could say anything else, she was gone.

Good. She was out of his life. It _was_ better this way.

Malcolm sunk down onto a box of disposable cups as the darkness of the pantry sunk down on his shoulders.

It was better this way.


	7. Chapter 7

Pairs of bulging eyes stared at him like brain dead meerkats as he stepped out of the small pantry of the DoSAC office, but with one quick look up from Malcolm, they scattered away as quick as they could. He gave a heavy sigh as he trudged forward to his next place of slaughter. He knew he shouldn’t take his frustration out on the underlings and assistants – they were only just trying to mop up the mess made by their incompetent bosses.

And it wasn’t like he was any different.

Clara’s words cut through him again as he continued through the office with a snarl. Some over confident bag of Blackpool candyfloss he’d only met a few days ago – what the hell did she know about him?

But now she was gone.

Good riddance.

And yet he couldn’t help but think he felt just a little bit…emptier. Like she had managed to find the only real piece of him left in his stretched out carcass of a human suit; and she had grabbed it with her small little hands and wrenched it away before he even knew there was anything left to steal.

But that was that and she was gone.

Her kiss, her eyes, her insufferable knowing smile: they were gone.

It was better that way.

He had spent too much time dancing round her like an idiotic fucking stroke victim on stilts – it was time to move on and do has actual job.

Malcolm drew in a breath and pushed in through the glass door, to Nicola Murray’s private office.

“I had nothing to do with it!” Ollie Reeder’s panicked voice squawked before Malcolm even had a chance to properly step into the room.

“What?” Nicola shot out as she cowered close to the desk, waiting nervously for the attack, while the shit squeezer Ollie moved up to Malcolm to plead for his head, and Glenn, the stale sandwich, was standing in the corner of the office, arms resolutely crossed.

He was fucking sick of them.

Sick of their comedy of errors. Sick of fixing everything they broke.

“I’m here against my will!” Ollie cut in with a whine.

“Oh shut it, Oliver Tit!” Glenn grumbled from the corner. “You helped her escape! If anyone shouldn’t be here it’s me.”

“Thanks guys, I really appreciate your loyalty!” Nicola glared at them.

“Oh yeah and you’re one to talk, joining the Cabal quicker than Russel Crowe to a pub fight!” Ollie struck back.

“I’m not in the Cabal!” She denied weakly.

“Oh come off it Nicola, you’re a worse liar than bloody Donald Trump’s toupee.” Glenn huffed.

“It was merely a fact finding meeting - ” Nicola attempted to defend.

“Just a quick innocent skip over enemy lines?” Glenn mocked.

“ – and one I needn’t have done if _someone_ hadn’t given the Manic Poxie Dream Girl clearance to stand behind me during the bloody press conference.” She turned around to give Glenn a biting glare.

“How was I to know she was going to turn into a miniature Mao Tse-Tung?” His voice cracked.

“ _Questions_ seem to be all the rage with people with actual mental capacity.”

“Well you’d know, bloody question enthusiast, as it was _you_ going all AWOL Piers Morgan that got us into this mess to begin with!” Glenn huffed.

“All right, Bert and Hernia – it was both your faults!” Ollie jumped in. “So now that’s agreed, may I please bugger off?”

“You’re staying right here, Tesco Brutus – you’re still part of my team.” Nicola rebutted.

Malcolm’s brow dropped lower and lower as he watched the three of incessantly argue back and forth like a trio of headless chickens fighting over who gets the chop. All sound and fury, signifying nothing. And normally he’d be in there, the god of noise himself.

Why wasn’t he in there?

Why did he feel so tired?

Glenn and Ollie were now toe-to-toe when Malcolm had finally had got to the end of his rope.

“Shut the fuck up.” His droll voice cut through the room instantly, causing the others to freeze in fear for what would come next. “I don’t give two a single fuck about you shits. But you….” He turned his icy glare to Nicola, who was already wilting back into her desk. “You work for the PM. So fucking act like it. Otherwise you’re fucked.”

Then without wanting to stay a second longer with them, he turned and marched out of the office, leaving the three of them gawping like idiots in his wake.

 

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

The hallways of Number 10 bustled with the nervous activity of the campaign, but the crowds parted for Malcolm as he waddled through with a stony face to Jamie’s department.

He needed to focus his mind, get it back to normal, back to the sharp knifepoint it usually was, and away from this murky apathy that was beginning to seep through him like a confusing virus. Hopefully a little bare-knuckle bitching with his Glaswegian pit-bull would help set him straight, and drown out the maddening doubt inside him.

Punching open the door to the office, he glanced around the desk of Jamie’s headquarters, but couldn’t find him anywhere.

“You.” He barked at the closest assistant, who froze in his seat. “Where’s Jamie?”

“I ah…” For some reason the staffer looked nervous, even more than he would be with the Demon Bullocker of Downing St glaring down at him. “I don’t know…”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. Something wasn’t right. “Ok, you’d be a better liar if your face didn't suddenly decide to audition for the fucking Blue Man Group. I’ll give you another chance – are you curious as to how far I could pull your eyeballs out from your sockets, or do you want to tell me where the fuck Jamie is?”

“The cabinet room.” He squeaked out, and Malcolm gave him a quick twisted smile then turned back around to the corridor and towards the cabinet room.

“No!” Malcolm was nearing the meeting room door when he heard the staffer’s voice again, calling weakly behind him. “You can’t go in!”

He stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to the approaching staffer with a look of incredulity. “I’m sorry?” He bared his teeth, ready to strike.

“It’s just a ah… private meeting.” The young man looked like death. “No-one is allowed in.”

“Lucky for you, I’m not no-one.” Malcolm growled then continued on to the cabinet room, going so far as to put his hand on the door when the staffer tried to stop him again.

“Please! I was given strict orders!”

“Right, that’s it Porky Fucking Pig – you stop me one more time and I’ll flay your pasty skin with safety scissors, season it with your fucking tears, and serve it up with a fucking side salad of fucking mandolin sliced wisps of your pin prick of a penis.”

The staffer looked as though he was about to faint when the door suddenly opened, revealing Jamie, who peeked out of the small crack.

“What…” Jamie started when he carefully slid out of the door then closed it quickly, not allowing Malcolm a glimpse into the cabinet room behind him.

“I’m sorry, I tried to stop him!” The assistant quickly cut in, trying to plead with Jamie.

“Oh fuck off back to work you useless fuck!” Jamie ordered, and the staffer swiftly obliged, when Jamie quickly grabbed Malcolm’s arm and pulled him to a doorway on the opposite side of the hall.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jamie berated him under his breath.

“The fuck you mean?” Malcolm shook off his grip.

“They’re all in there saying you joined the fucking Backbench Boys.”

“What?” Malcolm could feel the heat of anger begin to rise up inside him.

“Don’t act like you’re fucking surprised!” Jamie spat. “The spineless fucking staffers at DoSAC were all a fucking-flutter about your little private talks with Hanoi Jane and the Fuckers Three. What where you even thinking?”

“That I was putting out fires without having to worry about being accused of fucking starting them myself!” Malcolm shot back angrily. “Who’s in the room?”

“Tom and Julius.”

“And?”

“Don’t make this fucking harder on yourself than it already is mate, you know you’ve been off your game this week.”

“Off my…? Fuck you. I’m not off my game - I play in a whole fucking higher league. I’m fucking Ronaldo having to deal with fucking sugar fuelled toddlers who’ve fucking torn off their nappies and shitting all over the field! Who else is in there?”

“Malc…” Jamie warned through gritted teeth. “Let me fucking deal with this.”

“I don’t need anyone to fight my own battles, fuck you very much. Especially none so fucking ridiculous as this! I’m going to talk to Tom.” Malcolm tried to forge past Jamie, but he stuck an arm out in his path, stopping him. “Don’t even fucking _attempt_ …” He glared at Jamie’s arm in indignation, when Julius Nicholson appeared from the cabinet room door.

“Excuse me, Malcolm.” Julius interrupted with an infuriatingly patronising voice. “Do you mind taking this somewhere else?”

“Oh! My deepest apologies!” Malcolm feigned remorse. “I’ll just take this in there, shall I?” He pointed to the cabinet room door, causing Jamie to roll his eyes.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Malcolm.” Julius replied in controlled coldness.

“You can’t tell me what to do, fucking bargain-basement Hal 9000!” He growled.

“It seems I can, now that your loyalty is being put into question.” Julius said gravely as Malcolm just short-circuited.

_His loyalty?_

_His..._

Anger and disbelief clogged up inside him with a fiery pressure as he strained to get any words out.

“My loyalty?” His face began to redden as he processed the accusation. “The fucking pound-an-hour, fucking fair-weather slut of Whitehall is fucking questioning _my_ loyalty?” His brow shot up, not noticing that a crowd was beginning to cautiously gather in the hallway, watching the scene unfold.

“You failed to tarnish Miss Oswald’s character, then you are seen colluding with her, and the minister that is rumoured to have joined the Cabal.” Julius’ voice began to rise. “How could we not begin to question where your allegiance stands, hmm?”

“How bout it’s fucking _me_ you’re talking to?” Malcolm barked. “The fucker who’s sacrificed his fucking primary organs for this party for 20 years? The fucker who sold his soul to keep this party alive, and who’s trying to fucking keep it together by the tips of his fucking shredded and bloody fingers, even though colossal fucking clumps of cancer seem determined to knock it down! You’re fucking questioning _my_ loyalty like _you_ weren’t the last PM’s fucking primary ball licker!”

“And you weren’t his primary bulldog?” Julius said condescendingly.

“Fuck off!” Malcolm recoiled. “I’m going to talk to Tom.” He tried again to move to the door, but Julius blocked his away.

“He’s already talking to someone.”

“Get out of my way before I fucking dunk you in a cup of tea and bite your fucking fat head off.” Malcolm growled.

“Malc, just fucking stop – ” Jamie cut in from behind.

“I’m going in.” Malcolm continued to try and push past Julius, but he remained standing his ground.

“I’d rather prefer you didn’t.”

“Who’s Tom talking to?”

“Just fucking-”

“Please step away.”

“Don’t - ”

_“Who the fuck is he talking to?”_

“Steve Fleming.”

Malcolm felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.

“ _Fucking…_ fucking bum rapist Barney?” He blew up. “Fucking Steve I-Cut-My-Smile-With-A-Fucking-Switch-Blade Fleming? What the fuck is Tom doing talking to fucking him for?” He asked, dreading the answer.

“He thinks, in order to cover his wicket until the election, it would be a good idea to bring Steve in to assist you.” Julius explained calmly.

“You’re fucking joking…”

“Now look, we’re trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here Malcolm – it’s your own fault you’ve found yourself in this awkward position.” He tried to calm him down.

“This isn’t my fault. This is fucking far away from being my fault! This is the fucking distance between your scalp and a fucking thick mane of hair from being my fault! And if you think I need fucking _Dobby_ to assist me in destroying the Cabal, then you must have forgotten who the fuck you’re talking to!” He stepped right up to Julius’ face, glaring down at him and revelling in the small hint of fear behind his pudgy eyes. “I’m Malcolm Fucking Tucker. I am the prince of darkness. I brought this party to power under my black fucking wings of hell – so don’t you fucking _dare_ question me, or thinking I need a fucking limp dick of an assistant. I told you I was going to obliterate the Cabal, so that’s what I’m going to do. So why don’t _you_ go fucking prance back to Tom and his little diarrhetic chihuahua and tell they’ll be showering in the ashes of their fucking foes quicker than you can turn on me again, you fucking opportunistic piece of taint fluff!” Malcolm burrowed his eyes into Julius, then without another word, swiftly turned around and stared down Jamie, who was still standing behind him, and who gave a tired sigh then stepped out of his way. He glared at the audience of staffers, now frozen in the hallway before pushing past them and marching back to his office, nostrils flaring.

Fucking loyalty.

Fuck them.

He was going to destroy that little cult of hacks. He was going to fucking string them up from the London Eye with their own fucking intestines and steer the party to an easy fucking victory – that would show the fucking Oxbridge dough ball who was fucking loyal.

“Sam!” He called out as he balled into his office. “Get me Geoffrey! Then Angela Heaney. Or -fuck- whoever answers first!”

He grabbed his bag from the floor and dropped it on the top of his desk, as his ears began to throb with the sound of pumping blood. He would show them. Two long, worn hands delved into his bag and scoured the corners of the pockets. It was Operation fucking Scorched-Earth time. His hand finally brushed against something small and cold. He snapped his fingers around the key pulled it out when the phone began to beep. One hand on the phone, he nestled the receiver in the crook of his neck while he bent down to the side of his desk and brought the key to his personal draw.

“Geoff, you old Guardian angel!” He forced out a cheery voice while he turned the key in the lock and opened his draw. “What? Can’t anyone be nice to you? Were your daddy’s expectations a little too high?” Malcolm searched through the stack of papers till he found the file he was looking for. “Ok, so maybe I do have an ulterior motive, but that’s how it works, isn’t it? I scratch your back, you scratch mine, and we both supress dark doubts over our sexuality.” He dropped the file in front of him and opened it up. “Spare your whining, I got a good catch for you today…”

Malcolm’s voice faded off when his heart froze.

Clara’s eyes stared up at him from the small picture stapled on to the single page of background information. It was obviously taken off Facebook, outside in some nondescript park, and the person she had her arm around was unceremoniously cut out of the photo, but her gaze had lost none of its potency.

 _Or maybe the government just doesn’t listen to you_.

A shiver ran down Malcolm’s back as he promptly closed the file and pushed himself away from the desk, eying the manila folder cautiously. Geoffrey’s voice called over the phone line, but it seemed like only background noise as Malcolm’s thoughts began to rage with memories and doubts once more.

She was right.

She was right and he couldn’t face it.

He had recoiled when she practically called him a powerless puppet, but here he was, calling up the editor of a major newspaper, chomping at the bit just waiting to show off how quickly he could perform the Prime Minister’s wishes.

And for what?

Geoffrey spoke out again to Malcolm’s silence, but he slipped the phone receiver from ear, slowly stretched to the desk, and hung up.

 _Or maybe the government just doesn’t listen to you_.

Malcolm leaned back in his chair and took in his office with fresh eyes, the empty cans of energy drink scattered everywhere, the piles of documents on his desk, a spare suit hanging from the back of door for all-nighters. His eyes flicked to the paintings his nephew had made for him, that he had hung up on the wall. But even that was a lie, a professional tactic used to confuse and unsettle.

It was empty.

It was all empty.

And it could have all disappeared in an instant because some idiot DoSAC staffer started a rumour.

The ground felt like it was shifting below him as his hands rubbed past his eyes then cradled his face. He needed to get out. He needed to sort his thoughts out. He needed…

He needed something real.

 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! With all new chapters!

_As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods…_

The red pen hovered over the quote as Clara was swept up by a haunting sense of déjà vu.

 _…they kill us for their sport_.

She dropped her pen with an exasperated sigh and leaned back in her chair.

He said that. When they first met. Striding so arrogantly into her classroom, how could she have known that only days later she would be maddened by the memory of his deep sardonic brogue. She needed to get over it.

Picking up her ubiquitous red pen once more, she looked over the line of post-its she had arranged over the stack of essays in front of her on her small kitchen table.

_It would never have worked out._

_Way too volatile._

She gave a huff and slid the stack of yellow notes back over to her and scribbled another warning to herself.

_IT’S OVER._

She tore off the note and stuck it directly in front of her. And once again a thought snuck into the back of her mind, the enticing, intangible question of _what if?_

This wouldn’t do.

She pressed down her pen to the stack of post-its again, as if she could press the words into her subconscious.

_He’s gone off to do his job, so I must stop fussing and do mine._

She added it to the other notes with a resolute push, gave a small nod in agreement, and returned back to the half graded essay before her in an attempt to lull her mind back into focus, when all of a sudden there was firm knock on the door.

Clara turned in her chair and glanced up to the time on her wall clock. She hadn’t ordered any takeaway. But then there was another knock, and another, and another, until it became a steady beat filling up her small apartment, forcing her to get up and stop it. No doubt it was the press. They had kept their distance so far, only hanging around the entrance to Coal Hill, but maybe this was the moment they began to cross the line?

Well, their funeral.

Striding determinately to the door, she put on her stern face, the one she reserved for the most meddlesome of students, then swung it open, ready for battle.

“Listen mate, wil--”

She cut herself short as she was suddenly faced with the same haggard figured that had been holding her thoughts hostage all night, his cold glare locking her in like a vice.

“Are you real?” He jumped in with a rough voice before she had a chance to comprehend what was going on. They had made an arrangement, they were over – then all of a sudden he’s here, looking exhausted, tie missing, and he was asking…

“What?”

“You.” He barked out, nostrils flaring. “Me and you. Us. This whole fucking pathetic tango shite we’ve been doing: Is it real? Or has someone put you up to it?”

Clara instantly flared in anger. “How dar-”

“Was it the opposition?” He interrupted. “Or someone from my own side? They promise you fucking Cultural Revolution Part 2 if you did this _one. Small. Thing?_ ” He towered over her, his eyes lined with a deep red.

“Fuck off.” She said coldly as she defied his gaze. “You don’t believe that.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Well you don’t know me either if you think that’s something that I would _actually_ do!”

“I’d do it.” Malcolm shot back. “If there was some stubborn old cunt I needed to destroy, I’d throw them a fucking bright young thing – Fuck, I’d make my own fucking catapult! I mean sure, the old bastard would question it, wonder how this fucking _cherub_ could possibly take a shine to them, but hey! Maybe it’s just luck? Maybe it’s one of those rare fucking gifts of the universe that everyone else has been getting and now, at long last, it’s his turn. May-fucking-be. And so for the first time in fucking _eons_ , his blood starts pumping through his long neglected veins – which makes it all the better for a blood bath when I slash his fucking throat. I’d do that. I’d do it in a fucking second – no qualms, no remorse, no nothing.”

He loomed closer, trying to intimidate her, but Clara could sense something was off; there was something he was hiding behind that fierce glare.

“Why are you here?” She asked bluntly and stood firm.

“To ask—”

“Yeah, that’s bullshit and you know it.” She dismissed coldly. “Give me a better answer – Tell me the truth: Why are you here?”

“Why?” His brow twitched.

“Why.”

His face contorted as he erupted in jaded laughter, sending a chill down Clara’s spine. “ _Why?_ Why! Ain’t that a fucking one point two trillion dollar question!” He threw up his hands in frustration then turned away from her. “ _Why_ the fuck do they think we’re in fucking _cahoots? Why_ do I care? _Why_ have invested so much into this fucking party? _Why_ can’t I fucking think? _Why_ can’t I get this fucking laughing fucking leprechaun out of my head—”

“Ok, now you’re starting to worry me.”

“I’m not—” He snapped back to her, interrupted from his stream of consciousness. “It’s a story. Some fucking thing that’s just fucking stuck in there and I can’t get it…”

“A story?” Clara’s eyebrow quirked up.

“Yes.” Malcolm affirmed with an exasperated sigh.

“With a leprechaun…?”

“It’s not fucking impor— Fine.” He rubbed his fingers into his brow in frustration. “Yes. There’s a leprechaun. Ok? There’s a leprechaun and he’s sitting to the side of this big fuck-off road in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Then one day this other guy, I don’t know some fucking farmer or something – some poor cunt – stumbles across said road, and instantly creams his pants when he sees a rainbow on the horizon. So he drops to his fucking knees and starts begging the leprechaun to tell him how to get to the treasure at the bottom of the rainbow. The little fucker tells him that all the treasure he could ever want is just a little further along, where the two sides of the road meet. So the poor fucker fucking yelps, and starts fucking sprinting down the road. And keeps sprinting, I mean fuck, maybe he’s a Kenyan or something cause he fucking goes on forever. And sometimes he thinks he sees the sides meeting, but it just turns out that the road is turning a corner. So he keeps going, and going, until he’s old, and tired, with no fucking clue where he even is anymore, until he spots the leprechaun again – sitting on the side of the road like the fucking chump he is. And the farmer, he fucking goes _off_. Starts yelling: _you lied to me! You said there would be treasure when the road meets up to a point, but it’s never there! It just keeps going!_

But the leprechaun just laughs. You know, one of those high-pitched fucking creepy laughs, stares him straight in the eye and says:

 _Welcome to life. There is no point_.”

The silence fell as Malcolm took in a shaky breath, his worn palms outstretched between them.

“There’s no point!” He broke out. “Not to any of this, not to anything I’ve done. I mean, not that I didn’t think there wasn’t. You know: winning. That was my point. I fucking love winning. Getting to the top of that fucking mound, don’t mind if I fucking do! I love it more than _anything_ else in the fucking world! _And_ I’m good at it! But, see, the problem is, once you’re up there, you can’t fucking just kick your feet up and have a satsuma, you’ve got other fucking cunts who love winning too, trying to knock you off your post. So you got to _keep_ winning, _keep_ fighting, for every fucking second of your short and miserable life for that one square foot of dirt, which is just _slightly_ higher than everyone else’s. That is until, of course, the day comes, when the inevitable happens and they fucking stab you in the back and throw you off from the top. Because _of course_ the other fuckers would do that. Who else do you think they looked up to?”

He forced his lips into a rueful smile, but it seemed too strained, too painful. Clara’s chest had started to ache as she watched with forced silence as he exorcised himself, but seeing that hollow look on his face became way too much to bear. She moved in quickly, crossing the space between them and reached up to cup a small palm over his craggy cheek. He instantly froze in surprise, his bushy brow stretched up and his eyes opened wide.

“I’m sorry. It was my fault.” Clara said resolutely, trying to take some of the weight off him. “If I knew that they would suspect us I would never have gone—”

“Don’t.” Malcolm cut her off with a ghostly voice, when face returned to normal as he pushed himself away from her. “Just don’t. I dinnae want your fucking pity. Not from you.” He turned and paced down the hallway for a moment, head down, biting down on his thumb. “Do you know how close I was to destroying you?” He finally turned round and met her eyes. “Close. Fucking close. And you know what? I felt _relieved_. The thought of me destroying you gave me the best feeling I’ve had all fucking week.”

“But you didn’t.” She said softly.

“I wanted to.” He countered, slowly stepping back to her. “Heart of fucking hearts, I really wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.” She repeated wryly, slipping her hand back to his cheek as he gravitated closer to her. “What’s that saying about actions and words?”

“So asks the teacher…”

“Don’t you know our education system is rubbish?” She gave a small smile, but it was not reflected in Malcolm, his brow now serious, though he had not shaken off her touch.

“I’m not a good man.” He stated after a moment, voice deep.

“Right, because it was your gentle manners and pure soul which drew me to you in the first place.” Clara said dryly. “Did you undermine public privacy to find my address and come all the way here just to state the obvious?”

“No.”

“Ok then, so why are you here?”

Malcolm stood in silence for a moment, eyes darting over her.

“Your nose.”

“What?”

“I wanted to see your nose – it’s weird. Pointy yet round. And that little scar up the top of it, how did you get that? When you were a kid? What were you like as a kid, did you always want to be a teacher or were you just destined for dictatorship? What made you so stubborn, what made your eyes so….” He trailed off at her raised eyebrow and gave a final sigh in surrender. “You. I just… wanted to see you. Be around you.”

“Well then…” Clara blinked, a bit caught aback. “I’m glad you dropped by.” She murmured as she pushed herself up on her toes and guided Malcolm to reach her lips in a warm kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

Clara never thought of herself as a high maintenance woman – she knew how to get what she wanted, sure – but her list of pleasures in life was small and simple; the smell of one of her mother’s old books, the taste of a fresh cup of tea, the rush of wind when she rode her motorcycle. And tonight, wholly unexpectedly, she found herself adding one more thing to that exclusive list: the kiss of Malcolm Tucker, Demon Fucker of Downing St.

Their tentative kiss on her doorstep had quickly devolved into a rush of lips, tongue and teeth as he curled himself down to envelop her, pushing her closer with his wide hand sprawled across her lower back, while she stretched herself up from her toes, arms locked around his neck, as her stray fingers revelled in the feel of his short curls.

His hand made its way further down, moving over the curve of her arse and coaxed it towards him when she remembered they were still in the public hallway and she _really_ needed to move this inside before the neighbours added another thing to complain about, other than some mad Scotsman shouting about leprechauns.

She loosened her embrace and slowly snaked her hands down his neck, ghosting over the hint of stubble that had already begun to grow back, and then grasped his lapels and released herself from his lips momentarily. He let out a small groan in protest, darting his head forward to resume their kiss, but she was already backing up into her apartment. Using his insatiable forward momentum, she swung him through the doorway by his jacket, then kicked a leg out to find the edge of the door, when he changed his target and dove his lips into the crook of her neck. Clara took in a sharp intake of breath while her hands grasped at him, trying to seek balance when she finally slammed the door behind her with an unwieldy kick.

Malcolm took the initiative and walked her up to the now closed door and used it to press his body firmly against hers, then returned his attention to her lips. She could feel him now, hard against her stomach, and way too far from where she needed him most, so she lifted her leg and started to rub her thigh against his, when he took the hint and splayed his hands across her arse.

 _Good boy_ , she thought, as he lifted her up with an impressive ease and she wrapped her thighs tight around his slender waist, finally gaining the pressure she needed against the throbbing between her legs.

“Bed.” She managed to get out with a breathless voice, but instead he hiked her up further and buried his face between her breasts, his hot breath radiating through the thin cotton of her blouse, causing a bubble of warmth to rise up in her chest and spill out in a buoyant giggle.

“ _Bed!_ ” She demanded again, this time grabbing his shirt collar in a bunch and pulling it towards the direction of her bedroom.

Malcolm let out a low grumble of protest that vibrated through her chest, but then slowly kissed his way back up the hollow of her neck, to behind her ear, then to her lips, all while he haphazardly manoeuvred them down the hallway and into Clara’s waiting bedroom.

Clara had begun to impatiently tug off Malcolm’s jacket from his bony shoulders, when he unceremoniously dropped her onto the foot of her bed with a small bounce, then finished the job for her, shedding his jacket and kicking off his shoes as quickly as he could before his darkened eyes met hers, and he lunged at her, pinning her body to the mattress.

Nimble fingers made rushed work at undoing each others shirt and blouse, and she kissed a smirk to his lips when she could finally run a thumb down his slim but solid chest, following the faint line of his curls to the waist of his pants. She began to reach for his belt buckle when he pushed them up from the bed slightly and she felt his long fingers slide up her spine, then deftly unclasp her bra. It was his turn to smirk now as he straddled her while her threw off her blouse before also making quick work of her bra, then wasted no time in bending back down and taking a now uncovered breast into his mouth, circling the nipple with an artful tongue.

A moan fell from her lips before she could stop it, and she re-doubled her efforts at his belt buckle, trying not to be distracted by Malcolm’s stray hand, which had left the attention at her breast and was now trailing slowly southward towards—

Too late.

Is long fingers had already began to unbutton her jeans when they slipped beneath her underwear, over her short curls and teased her centre, now slick with the blatant evidence of her arousal. She could feel his shit-eating grin against her breast and wished she could smack it off his smug face, but he quickly doused all her thoughts of revenge when he returned to his lips for a languid kiss.

Instead she decided to take the initiative. She wanted him. Now.

She put her two hands to work and unbuckled his trousers, then tried to shuffle them down his long spindly legs with her feet, when she cupped him firmly through his trunks. His lips broke with hers as his breath cut short, so she decided to make the most of the opportunity.

“Condom.” She whispered against his lips.

His ministrations paused for a moment as he stilled above her, his wide eyes looking straight at her. “…haven’t got any.”

She blinked stupidly for a moment, trying to calibrate her common sense through the haze of desire. “But… you’re a guy.”

“It’s not as if I was planning anything – ”

“You’re a guy.” She deadpanned.

“Hey, the only fucking I’ve been doing recently has been strictly metaphorical—” He started rambling when he suddenly froze in thinly veiled embarrassment. “… I shouldn’t have admitted that.”

She couldn’t hold back the giggle that burst from her, to which his brow immediately scrunched up into a frown, which in turn caused Clara to laugh even harder, for his once commanding brow was now utterly ridiculous when it was hovering only inches above her own.

“Ok stop fucking – ” He started to grumble to no avail. “Don’t laugh.”

“I can’t help it – ” Her chest bubbled against his slim body in laughter, her eyes shining with mirth. “Do you even remember what to do?”

All of a sudden a long finger slipped into her and curled _just_ the right way, while a calloused thumb pressed down on her swollen nub.

Clara’s laugh disappeared into a gasp.

“ _Oo_ ok!” She recovered under Malcolm’s arrogant smirk. “…so you may remember a thing or two…” She ran a hand through his hair and brought him down for a wet kiss as his own fingers played between her legs. But she was already building up too quickly.

“Bedside table.” She pulled away slightly and murmured against his cheek. “I think there’s one.”

Malcolm stilled and locked eyes with her for a moment, looking for confirmation, then quickly rolled off her in a surprisingly lithe movement and kicked off the rest of his sagging trousers, leaving him naked except for his trunks, and kneeled by her bedside table to hunt for the remedy for his rather large bulge contained within them.

Clara shifted on her side, watching him with a quiet amusement and fondness at his determined frown as he rifled through her bedside draw.

“Nurofen, tampons, earplugs…” He murmured to himself, fishing around with his hands. “You’re quite the wholesome motherfucker aren’t you… oh!” His eyes suddenly lit up. “I spoke too soon.” He looked over to Clara with a knowing grin. “This shiny gold bullet thing in the corner there, what might that – ”

“Next time.” Clara quickly cut him off, slightly more embarrassed at his discovery than she thought she would be.

“Oh so there’ll be a next time?”

“There won’t be a _first time_ without that condom.”

“Sorry love, can’t find it.”

“I’ll help you - you poor old man, didn’t realize your eyesight must be going.” She pouted at him, revelling in his stern expression, when it suddenly switched, his eyes opening wide in a comedic gawp.  
“Who said that?” His accent turned thick as he raised his hands in front of him in mock blindness, trying to feel his way back onto the bed.

“Oh shush.” Clara tired to stifle a laugh, but then he changed direction, and started to shuffle down to the foot of her bed.

“Is that you, Clara?” He started patting down the mattress, when he wrapped a hand around her calf-

“Wait-”

“I can’t see is that you?”

Another hand hooked under her knee –

“Stop-”

He grasped her firmly and dragged her down the bed, bringing the apex of her thighs right up to his-

“ _Fuck!_ ”

He slipped down her panties and ran a firm tongue along her centre. She instinctively bucked up with a laugh but his wide hand held her down by her thigh, while the other returned to her breast, lightly kneading it in his palm while giving the nipple the occasional flick of his fingertips.

She was squirming now, grasping his short hair in a fist, straining on the knife edge for desire for either relief or release, but still he kept going, that infamous mouth of his focused solely on her own mounting pleasure. It was all going too quickly, she wasn’t going to fall apart so soon, she wasn’t-

Two long fingers moved inside her.

A flick, and a lick, and she was gone.

He steadied her legs as she shuddered around him, while she stared up at the ceiling in an attempt to regain her breath, then looked back down to see Malcolm still between her thighs, positively grinning at her.

“You… bastard.” She cursed under her breath.

“The pleasure was all mine.” He eyed her haughtily, as he very purposely finished wiping his mouth with thumb.

“Oh I’ll show you pleasure.” She threatened, to which he only smiled wider. “Bathroom closet.” She began to nudge his bare back with the heel of her foot. “There’s got to be one there.”

He instantly jumped up from the floor and almost sprinted out of her room and down the hallway.

“Other way!” She laughed, when he zoomed past the doorway of her bedroom in that speedy waddle she found so adorable, but now began to wonder if it was a result of what he had straining in his trunks, which only made her more impatient.

“ _Helloooooooo Clara’s bathroom!_ ” She heard his Scottish brogue echo through the apartment. “ _What goodies have you got in store for me?_ ”

“Hurry up!” She called back.

“ _Not my fault you’ve got more toiletries than a fucking Boots in here!”_ His voice complained. “ _You’ve got four different razors – what’s that, one for every limb?_ ”

“Malcolm! Condom!”

“ _Yes ma’am! ~Looking for the condom, looking through her pile crap~_ ” His deep melodic voice froze her in her spot.

“…are you singing?”

“ _Sure am!_ ”

“To my toiletries?”

“ _Just be glad I’m serenading them and not you, otherwise you'd be even weaker in the knees!_ ”

“Is that so?”

“ _~That is so, so, soooo!~_ ” He sang with flourish, making her pulse quicken. The bastard.

“I swear to god Malcolm if you don’t find that – ”

“ _Travel bag! Got it!_ ” His voice exclaimed, there was a slam of the door and the sound of heavy footsteps scuttling towards her room, when he appeared in her doorway, proudly holding up her cheap plastic toiletries bag she used for short trips like it was the holy grail.

“Here.” She demanded and he threw it to her. She quickly unzipped the bag and ferreted out the row of condoms she could see hiding in the corner, when Malcolm was back on her lips, encircling her with his arms. But now she had what she needed.

With one swift movement she turned them over so she was now straddling him, and held down his hands with her fingers still gripping the condoms, then gave him one long, languid kiss before pulling away with a grin.

“ _My turn_.”


	10. Chapter 10

 

Content.

The unfamiliar concept emerged quietly from his dark subconscious, becalmed by a deep and heavy sleep.

That was the word.

Malcolm felt content.

Rousing slowly, he took in a lazy breath in of the heady scent he was nuzzled into. Linen, sex, and _her._ Visions of the night before rose through his sleep-addled mind; the knowing smirk she gave while above him, the pressure of their interlocked hands clenching together, the tickle of his skin as she gasped against his ear – it was all real. It happened. He was asleep in her bed, and she was asleep right next to him.

Right next to him.

His lips began to tweak upwards at their own accord when he left the comforting hollow of the pillow and turned to his other side to-

“ _F—jesus!”_

A blinding pain stabbed the side of his neck, forcing his eyes to shoot open and a curse to escape his lips in Pavlovian response. His gaze quickly flicked over the mattress in sudden panic. Empty. Thank fuck. Tentatively, he brought a hand up to his throbbing neck muscle, edged himself upwards to sit on the bed, and surveyed the darkened bedroom. Dawn was only just beginning to break through the quiet room, his clothes were still strewn haphazardly on the floor, while hers now appeared to be folded over the back of her chair. He caught a glimpse of his confused frown in the corner of her triptych mirror and quickly turned away from himself, which only sent another shot of pain from his neck again.

“ _Oh…._ fuck off.” Malcolm gritted under his breath, and tried massaging the muscle with a firm hand. With his other hand he drew off the sheet from his legs and slipped off the bed, slowly stood to his full height, then stretched himself even further, forcing his tired joints to click into place.

 _At least she wasn’t there to see that,_ he thought as he strained his neck to one side in an attempt to east the muscle, _don’t want her thinking I’m some sad old cunt._

_You are a sad old cunt._

Malcolm stilled, and looked down at his bare, weary body as his neck continued to pulse with a dulling ache.

_Old, broken, and utterly pointless._

A long ignored mirror had been thrust up to his life yesterday, and she had taken him in… but now she wasn’t there.

Malcolm looked back to her neat and methodically placed clothes and bit his lip in uncertainty. Of course she was still there, this was her own apartment for fuck’s sake, she wouldn’t just leave some stranger alone here. But maybe she regretted it. Regretted last night.

Taking mind of his neck, he swiftly bent down to gather his trunks from the ground and slipped them over his long, wiry legs, then gently slipped his undershirt over his head. Satisfied that he had achieved the ‘I Like Us Naked But Wandering Your Home Naked Might Freak You Out’ look and not the ‘That Was Nice, Now I’m Off’ look that an additional shirt or pair of trousers would have given, he headed to the door and peered out.

A light was on two doors down, leaking out into a small pool in the dark hallway. Malcolm stepped towards it, and with a final delicate stretch of his neck, turned the corner.

There sat Clara, in an oversized men’s pyjama shirt and small silk boxers, at her kitchen table, surrounded by piles of paper, from which she instantly looked up from at his entrance.

Well, _half_ entrance.

He had meant to stride in, but few hours of separation that sleep had dulled, he swore he must have forgotten to what unfathomable degree she was beautiful, because when he saw her sitting in her little kitchen, one small leg tucked under herself, the nub of a red pen playing at the corner of her lips as she studiously went through a page, he fell completely dumb.

But she now looked up at him expectedly, as his mind raced through the infinite amount of greetings his verbally gifted brain could think of.

“You’re up.” Seemed to be the one he’d chosen.

“I am.” She replied teasingly.

Malcolm could only manage a small nod. Up before dawn and already doing work. Of course she was – how many times had he done that exact same thing to the scattering of long forgotten women had had managed to coax into his bed in the past? The comparison hung bitter in his mouth. She wasn’t him though, and he wasn’t one of those meaningless mayflies - wasn’t he?

“Coffee?” He interrupted his increasingly doubtful thoughts before they became too toxic.

“Sorry, just tea.” Clara gave her mug a little nudge. “But I think there’s some hiding in the back of my cupboard, if you want.”

“Tea’s good.” He finally moved from the threshold and strode into the kitchen with a forced confidence, grabbed a mug from the drying rack, then sat down at the table next to Clara, giving her a wink as he poured himself a cup from the almost empty teacup – to which she gave the slightest of smiles, but then turned away back to her work.

Malcolm gave an inward sigh and tried a closer look at the papers organised across the table, but his focus kept being drawn back to her face; the way her eyes darted silently across the sentences, the brief strand of dark hair loose around her ear, her tiny perfect ear, the way her smooth jaw clenched a little in thought, then back to her eyes, her giant dark pools which… were now aimed straight at him.

“You’re staring.” She caught him.

“So what if I am?” Malcolm shrugged, bringing his mug to his lips.

“It’s distracting.”

“You’re distracting.”

Clara raised a small eyebrow at him with a look of _seriously?_ , but when she went back to her page he spotted the slightest shade of red begin to warm her cheek. He got a win.

“So…” Malcolm started again with renewed confidence, and began to flick through the mass of essays lying in front of him. “King Lear – Bit fucking morose for breakfast reading, don’t you think?”

Clara didn’t look up from her marking to respond. “ _Somebody_ distracted me last night.”

“Good distraction, though?” He attempted to joke.

Clara just looked back at him with a confused look on her face.

“What?” He asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“You’re acting weird.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are, you’re all—” She floated her hand in circles unintelligibly around his face.

“Jazz hands? Sorry love I forgot I put on my sequined jock strap this morning.”

“No it’s…” She stared at him harder when suddenly her brow rose in surprise and she sat up in her chair. “You’re hurt I got up to do work.”

“That’s curt.”

“Stop rhyming.”

“You started it.”

“I’m right though, aren’t I?” Clara looked pleased with herself.

“Go back to your mad king.”

“I’m sorry Tucker, I didn’t think you’d be a cuddler.” She gave him a pout, obviously taking much enjoyment from his discomfort, the minx.

“I’m not.” Malcolm huffed in defence, then turned his focus to his mug of tea in feigned casualness. “Only on the fucking rarest of moments, when the fucking celestial bodies all align with fucking Elton John’s glasses, am I _ever_ a cuddler.”

“I just missed the glasses alignment, didn’t I?” Clara bit her lip apologetically.

“Went right past in a fucking ball of glitter.”

“Damn.” She gave a sigh, then looked up at him from under her brow in a coy look, which pulled Malcolm to edge closer to her, his knees grazing the side of her chair as he leaned in and whispered into her ear.

“ _But you never know… who’s to say he won’t try on another pair?_ ” He kissed his way from the tip of her jaw down to her lips, and she responded gladly, and her hands found themselves in his hair in a now familiar habit, when a soft moan came from her throat and she pulled away just barely from his lips.

“No… I… have… to finish… marking.” She protested between kisses, then sprawling her small hand across his face, she unceremoniously pushed herself away from him and looked back at the pile of essays with a lick of her lips.

Malcolm sat back in his chair with a huff. “Remind me to kick Shakespeare right up his iambic fucking pentameter.”

Clara gave a short sniff of laughter. “Well at least you’d have Miss Woods to help you out.”

He gave her a look for explanation, to which she pointed her red pen to a page that had been singled out in it’s own island from the rest of the essays. He picked up the condemned paper and glanced through the red marked lines. “Well she does have a point…” Clara shot a look him. “What does some old idiot king who can only be understood with a degree in fucking dead languages have to do with her?”

Her eyes narrowed, taking him as a target and she opened her mouth to respond, to which she reluctantly gave up and turned back with a small shake of her head.

“What?” Malcolm watched her.

“Nothing.” She focused on her marking with added effort.

“You got a look on your face.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yeah you do; like you’re trying to hold back a tirade – I know the look well. Even though I’m a fucking failure at it myself.”

“I’m not holding anything.” She denied primly, holding onto an essay.

“Surely you can see the lass’s point though? What’s she going to learn in some old play about old monarchs that is going to help her own in life—”

“ _Everything._ ” Clara finally relented, turning back to him open and honest. “She learns everything.”

“How not to write a will?”

“ _No_ , it’s not that it’s… _what it’s like to be human_. We fuck up, we have vices, we’re petty, we make mistakes, we get lost, get angry, we stand naked in the middle of a storm and shout at fate even though it’s all in vain. This isn’t some anachronistic emotion that only certain people at a certain time felt. This is here and now. This is teenagers growing to the age where the shades of life are pulled down, and what was simple is now a mess. And they don’t know how to handle it, they think they're alone; think they have no way to express themselves. That's why you need art – to show you that people have gone through the same thing, to express what you never thought you could. Some old writer from 500 years ago can write a line that objectively seems archaic and nonsensical – but yet when you say it without thinking it cuts straight to your soul.

This is my whole problem with the education policy. We have these kids from 5 to 16 - compulsory. We’re there to teach the ‘ _Nation of the Future’,_ and we absolutely waste it on some bygone industrial era idea of what you need to be part of a work force. But the world is changing and this is a working class school – the jobs that their parents have aren’t going to exist in 15 years. So what am I training them for? All these essays here, they’re not the final assessment – they're a drafts for an exam. When I give them back, they’ll adjust them to my suggestions, memorize them like robots then just copy them down in a test which is supposed to grade intelligence but only ends up rewarding conformity. I want to share with them the beauty of King Lear but all they care about is the bullet point break down that will give them the marks. And the kids that don’t care about the marks, well, they shut off completely. Which is just… heart breaking. Courtney Woods over there is one of the most intelligent girls I’ve taught, but she doesn't think she fits in this world. I want to spend the time with her, help her go through things, grow her into a more critical and creative thinker, like I want to do with everyone else in my classes, but I don’t have the time. I have to meet the quota. So instead here I am with my red pen, fixing the essays so they fit into the pre-arranged boxes of analysis. And there the kids are, thinking Shakespeare doesn't have anything to do with them.” Clara gave a small, tired sigh and dropped her pen onto the table.

Malcolm sat transfixed. His heart rate had sped up; his stomach had tensed in a feeling of… _passion?_ He was Malcolm Tucker, hollowed out husk and cynic at large who had been to more soul draining committees on education to make him want to shove chalk up every orifice, yet there he sat, after listening to a pixie of a English school teacher, _moved_.

This was the point.

The point he could never find, and she had it.

Clara noticed his fixed stare, and looked at him concerned. “What?”

Malcolm snapped out of his thoughts. “Sorry, just realised the time. I got to go to work.”

“ _What?_ ”

He quickly sprung up from the chair and headed out of the kitchen. “ _Work_. You know, the thing that’s going to be stolen by fucking robots in 15 years.” He called out as he made his way down the hallway and back into her bedroom.

“But I thought…” He heard her following in behind. “Hold on, so you weren’t fired?”

“No.”

“But they think that you’re in some scheme with me.” She watched him from the doorway as he put on his trousers and collected his shirt and tie from the floor.

“Seems so.”

“So does that mean, if you’re going to work…”

“What?”

“That we’re done?”

“Done what?”

“ _This_.”

“What is _this_?”

“I don't know, something that can occur on a semi-regular basis?”

Malcolm fixed his tie around his neck with a dramatic pause for thought. “Works for me. Though I’d prefer ‘very-regular’.”

Clara just frowned in concern. “But what about your job, it will just get worse for you.”

“Then it gets worse.” He shrugged on his jacket over his lean frame. “I can take it.”

Clara stared him down, trying to decipher his actions when her face instantly dropped, and her wide eyes widened even further than he thought natural. “You’re on my side.” She said simply, her voice full of emotion.

“Now before you start thinking this was some magical fucking pussy power—”

“You’re going to help me.”

“—you had some fucking good objective policy arguments completely unrelated---”

“Oh shut up.” Her eyes gleaned as she gave a grin and lunged towards him, gabbing his tie to pull-

“Awwfuck!” Malcolm yelped as his neck spasmed from the jerk of his tie. Clara immediately froze in concern.

“Oh shit did I?”

“Aye.” He grimaced, still hunched down to her face where she tugged him.

“I’m so sorry!” She released the tie, but he still didn’t move from his position, afraid to inflict any more pain, when Clara’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Was that from when my leg-”

“Aye.”

“First or –”

“Second.”

“Oh.”

“Aye.”

“Well then…” She gave a smile, and moved in closer to him. “I guess I’ll have to pay you back tonight.”


	11. Chapter 11

He was on a mission now.

An honourable fucking purpose bequeathed upon him by the archangel of fucking Know-It-Alls herself. He would fucking laugh at himself if he didn’t feel so unashamedly invigorated. Yeah he had a mission, so fucking what? Wasn’t that why he moved into politics in the first place, to stop judging from the sidelines with the press and actually do something productive?

Striding down the hallway of Number 10, Malcolm tried to cast his thoughts back to who he was and how he felt all those work worn years before, but there was nothing left to salvage in the fog of his memory – he had thrown everything overboard since, trying to keep his status afloat.

But now all that self-destruction shit was done. He had reason. He had drive. He had focus sharper than fucking Michael Fassbender’s teeth.

Malcolm awarded himself a smile as he made his way down the empty hall to his office. If they thought he was an angel of fucking vengeance while he was a soulless hack, he couldn’t wait to see the fear in their eyes now.

He picked up his stride and readied himself to hit top gear as soon as he reached Sam at her desk, but when he rounded the corner she wasn’t there.

Odd.

Malcolm stalled and looked back down the hallway. A junior minister scurried quickly out of view, but besides her there was no one else around. A frown took over Malcolm’s face and he flung his wrist out to check the time. Only 7:18. Where the fuck were his staffers?

With a slower pace, he resumed his approach to Sam’s desk, when the faint sound of a bone-twistingly-pitched voice began to scratch out from the other side of his personal office door.

The fucking cunt.

Malcolm clenched his jaw then pushed his way into his office when the door suddenly came against an unexpected barrier. He heard a shuffle of movement in the room in front of him, then he tried again slowly this time, drawing open the door to reveal Steve Flemming, the market value Mussolini, perched against the front of Malcolm’s desk, arms crossed tight against his bloated frame and head stuck out like a fucking constipated chicken as he sermonized the pack of dull faced staffers now crammed in around him in Malcolm’s office.

Their faces now turned like a hive towards Malcolm as he stood at the threshold, their collective thoughts so obvious they may as well have fucking shouted that they all knew what happened outside the cabinet room the night before.

“Ah, Malcolm!” Steve’s grating voice cut through the sudden silence. “We were wondering were you had got to – or wasn’t Sam able to tell you about the meeting?” Steve glanced over to Sam who stood beside the desk, staring at Malcolm with pleading eyes that didn’t need any translation for him. She didn’t know about any of this. The fucking…

Malcolm stopped himself from going on the attack. He had a job to do, he had to stay on Steve’s good side, such as it was, for just a little while longer. Get the education bill, get Clara safe. Then the bullocking could reign free.

He fixed on his familiar mask and stepped into his office. “Thought I’d allow you a moment on stage before I snatch the spotlight again.”

The insidiously cheerful smile only grew on Steve’s plump face as he remained sitting against Malcolm’s desk. “Care for a croissant? Brought them in for the team – yes I admit an _appeasement_ for the early call, but a delicious appeasement nonetheless, eh?” He looked around them all with bug eyes as if he told a hilarious inside joke, when his smile instantly fell. “But not the chocolate ones, sorry. I promised them upstairs. Can’t be known as a man who doesn’t keep his promises, can I?”

“Nah, more likely to be known as a cock-tease.” Jamie’s slightly muffled voice appeared from the far corner of the room, as Malcolm spied him in between staffers, taking a large bite of one of the offered pastries. “Sorry…” He gave a slight cough. “ _croissant-tease_. Cannae talk with my mouth full. Top danish, though.”

Malcolm tried to gauge his friend’s face, but he refused to look at him, so he strode the wall of staffers and took his place behind his desk. “Thanks for the offer, but this close to the election I only feed on the freshly milked tears of the opposition.”  
“Well, the croissant is there for any takers.” Steve peered slightly over his shoulder to him. “I’m afraid we don’t have the time to catch you up on everything, seeing as we’ve already gone through a bit – but maybe you can give an _update from the field_ , as it were, eh? What did you leak out about our problem teacher?”

Malcolm’s heartbeat involuntarily sped up when his eyes flicked from Steve to Jamie, waiting expectedly in the corner. Jamie knew what was in Clara’s smear folder. It sat locked away still in the very desk Steve was leaning on, and only he and Jamie knew of its contents. It Steve Flemming was to find out one thing about her, even one whiff of a smear…

He was taking too long.

He had to answer.

He looked down.

“Yeah, that’s all sorted. Tied up in a neat fucking little bow around her own coffin.” He gave a dismissive wave then looked back u at the waiting faces.

“…And?” Steve pressed.

“And what?” Malcolm attempted nonchalance.

“What was the leak?”

“…Just the fucking usual – turns out she applied and got rejected from five different top class private schools before she gave up and settled for Delinquent Hill Public. The Mail’s going to run it tomorrow, after the oppositions little education press conference, to get the most impact: _‘Miss Chip’s Chip On Her Shoulder’._ Shittiest fucking headline I’ve ever heard but who the fuck am I to complain about the quality of the rope so long as the hanging gets done.” He flashed a sardonic smile, but then his eyes flicked back to Jamie, who now stood frozen, his face grave.

Well. He noticed.

“Good to hear, good to hear.” Steve interrupted Malcolm’s discovery with condescending cheer. “Good to see that, done and dusted, finally. Because as you should all be aware – ” He turned away from Malcolm and faced his prey of staffers. “ – there are just three things one needs to win any election: Leadership, Strength, and Unity. With that little education snafu out of the way, we’ve got clear skies to consolidate our leadership and stre—do not TOUCH the chocolate!”

A staffer froze in mid air on his way down to one of the restricted chocolate croissants laid out on the coffee table in the middle of the room as Steve’s face suddenly began to spasm between ferocity and humour. “Did you not hear me _literally_ just then say they’re not for you, hmm? Have you listened to _anything_ I sa—Oops! Got a little _grr_ there, a little snappy. Maybe it’s low blood sugar, should have one of those chocolate croissants myself ha-ha! But like I _said_ , they’re for upstairs. Tell you what, if we win the election, I’ll bring in a mountain of chocolate croissants for us all! That sound like a good enough carrot for you?” He shot a look at the guilty staffer who retreated with a stunned look on his face and gave a surrendering nod. “ _Like I said_ …” Steve picked up his speech with a forceful voice. “Leadership…”

Steve’s words just fell into white noise as Malcolm scrambled to rethink his plan on the fly. He had just tied himself to the fucking train tracks. Jamie knew he lied. That gave him one day. One fucking day…

He tried to focus his thoughts, scan through the quickly dwindling options but Steve Flemming’s innocuous analogizing kept piercing through and balling his hand into a tight fucking fist was all he could do to—

Got it.

“Did you just say Strength _and_ Unity?” Malcolm cut into the middle of Steve’s speech, halting him in his place so he turned round to face him with an impatient glare.

“I did.” He forced out a casual grimace. “What about it?”

“Oh nothing, nothing…” Malcolm waved off. “Please, continue.” Steve turned back to the staff and opened his mouth to resume his sermon when Malcolm dove back into the fray. “It’s just that, I mean I’m no fucking Shakespeare, but Strength and Unity _do_ mean the same thing.”

“What?”

“You got to get yourself a new three point plan – that’s alright, just head back to the drawing board and we’ll see what you got tomorrow.” Malcolm gave him a kind smile but Steve’s face only began to redden.

“Strength and Unity are not the same.”

“Oh?”

“The are _categorically_ completely different concepts.”

“ _Categorically_ , huh?” Malcolm raised an eyebrow then turned his attention to the watching staffers as he began to round his desk and head towards the centre of the office. “You know Genghis Kahn, biggest cunt of history and ultimate fucking heartthrob – there is this story about him and his will. See, he knew his sons were more likely to become bonsai fucking pacifist than willingly share the empire when he died, so while he was still kicking he tried to teach them a lesson in common fucking sense.” Malcolm passed the coffee table where the pastries were laid out and nonchalantly picked up one of the forbidden chocolate croissants. “He grabbed single arrow and snapped it quicker than a vegan’s fucking thigh bone.” Malcolm tore the sweet pastry in two and took a large bite out of one half, to Steve’s growing fury. “But then when he bunched a whole lot of arrows together and tried again – they wouldn’t break.” He offered the other half of the croissant to the previously chastised staffer, who duly took it as if it was a wolf’s one mercy. Malcolm turned back to Steve, took another triumphant bite and gave him a pastry filled smirk. “Unity _is_ Strength.”

“Well, yes – in _that_ sense it is.” Steve relented through gritted teeth while his eyes scanned the surrounding staff.

“Great, then you agree with me.” Malcolm gave a satisfied smile and popped the last of the croissant in his mouth.

“ _No._ ” Steve grumbled.

“You don’t?”

“Yes.”

“But you just said – sorry, just trying to get my head around your flip flopping, maybe you should add _‘Decisiveness’_ to that little election flowchart of yours.”

“Yes but that falls under Leadership.”

“Oh so _those_ two words mean the same thing?”

Steve looked as if he were about to explode. Hands on his hips, he looked around his audience and tried to put on a smile but it just ended up looking like a twisted mess. “I am merely trying to say that the unity proverb, while true for _fucking arrows_ ,” he spat out then tired to compose himself. “Does not _actually_ apply to all other things.”

“Things like?”

“… _Jelly!_ ”

“Oh, aye.” Malcolm just cracked a confident grin and returned back to behind his desk as Steve attempted to calm his flaring nostrils after his embarrassing outburst in front of everyone. “You fucking got me there, Brian Cock. But, getting back to the meeting—”

“Which _I_ called in the first place.” Steve tried to get himself back.

“And fucking gold star to you for being productive, but in all possible respect to you I think your Ritalin’s beginning to wear off so I think it’s time for daddy to step in.”

“You started it!” Steve broke out in frustration.

“Hey, come on here – let’s not descent into schoolyard bickering. We got a war to fight, right. We got to be on the same side – fucking _unified_ , you know?”

“I was – ”

“Right so Unity being the fucking theme of the day.” Malcolm quickly smothered Steve’s interjection. “I hereby decree to you all that none of our traitorous fucking clumps of cancer known as the Cabal will be allowed press appearances in the next two weeks before the election. And I mean nothing. No radio, no TV, no fucking casual conversations with some fat fucking basement dweller who runs some fucking blog about Famous fucking Mustard Stains Through History and wants to chat about the Secretary of Agriculture’s fucking capri trousers – I want radio fucking silence. I want Das Boot. Or the opposition will lay das boot so far up our collective arseholes they’ll be wider than fucking George Michael’s.” Malcolm took the moment to stare down the room before playing his final card. “ _Especially_ the festering pile of menstruation by-product formally known as Nicola Murray. I want her silent as the grave, if I could cover that grave with another ten tonnes of fucking shit so it’s even _more_ fucking silenced. Got it?” He paused, looking over the faces of the staffers, praying his bait would be taken.

“Well, actually…” Steve Flemming’s voice suddenly sounded like an angel of mercy as he spoke up through the silence. “I believe that is a horrible idea. And being your co-head…”

“You’re not my fucking co-head.” Malcolm tried to stoke the fire more to hedge his bets.

“I am.”

“Right, if you’re co-head to a fucking walrus.”

“I am going to take this moment to supersede your decision—”

“You must be proud that The Beatles wrote a song about you–”

“—that Nicola Murray and the rest of the Cabal _must_ be seen by the press otherwise it will be viewed that we are simply _forcing_ them out of the limelight rather than them coming back into the fold with the rest of the party.”

“Wouldn’t want Murray to ‘ _come back’_ onto anything.”

“We will book her on radio _tonight_ , where she will publically confirm her support of the PM, and then the rest of the Cabal will follow suit in the days after, and this whole stupid mess will be over.” Steve finally stood up fully from the desk and swiftly wheeled round to face Malcolm with an attacking finger. “And _you_ cannot do any _fucking_ thing about it!”

Malcolm held up his palms in submission. “If you want to wrangle all those fuckers in line, be my guest, co-head.” Steve looked contented and turned back, but Malcolm knew he had the more difficult challenge to face now. Jamie. He looked over to the staffers. “But now that’s sorted, I’ve actually got important work to do, as I think you all do too; so meeting fucking adju—”

“Meeting adjourned!” Steve jumped on Malcolm’s command to the staffers, who swiftly began to hurry out of Malcolm’s office like spooked pigeons – all except Jamie, who Malcolm saw remained rooted in his spot in the corner of the room, staring him down with the same grave expression. Steve had made his way through the exiting masses to collect what was left of the chocolate croissants, then turned back to Malcolm. “Remember, Malcolm – ” His voice still quivered with frustration. “I _was_ brought back in here for a reason.”

Malcolm just gave a passive aggressive smile. “Yes, well, when that reason’s all resolved, you won’t have much more point here, will you?”

Steve just gave a huff and stamped out of the office, box of croissants held aloft, leaving Malcolm alone in the office with Jamie.

Now.

Malcolm jumped from behind the desk and slammed the office door shut before Jamie had a chance to think about leaving, then swung round to face him.

“You cannot tell Steve about Clara’s folder.” Malcolm demanded with a low voice, his eyes cold as he stared down Jamie from across the room.

“You know what, you are the world’s worst fucking liar.” Jamie just looked at him in disbelief.

Malcolm remained unmoved. “You _cannot_ tell Steve about Clara’s folder.”

“I bet you didn’t even talk to the fucking press either, for fuck’s sake—”

“Jamie—”

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” Jamie finally broke out in anger. “We’re going down in the polls and Tom brought in Gary fucking Glitter to right the ship because you fucking fucked up, and here you are still fucking up! I mean, what the almighty fuck is going on? I haven’t had to carry your vomiting arse off the fucking curb so you haven’t started drinking again, but, fuck, maybe you fucking have cause I don’t understand why you keep trying to drive us all off a fucking cliff in order to protect this fucking tart – unless she’s got your fucking cock in a jar but beyond that—”

Malcolm just remained silent by the door, unwilling to add another lie to the twisted knot lest it fuck everything up more, but he was terrified to put Clara in any more danger. “…I’m not protecting anyone…” He tried. “…you just need to fucking promise me…”

Jamie instantly froze, his eyes wide. “Oh fuck. Oh FUCK!” He spat, and turned his back on Malcolm. “Oh fuck me mother fuck fuck fuck! You fucking fucked her, didn’t you?” He swung back to him, demanding an answer.

“No.” Malcolm attempted a lie, but Jamie just turned round and kicked the filing cabinet with a heavy foot.

“Fuck! You fucking cock, you fucked the teacher – or you fucking want to!”

“It’s not just that—”

“Yeah, it fucking is though, isn’t it? Jesus Christ on a fucking spike Malc, there’s a reason why you’re not fucking married anymore – cause when you’re with a lass, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Education reform is important.”

“Oh yeah I fucking bet it is. Bet it’s fucking slick and warm too.”

“Stop it.”

“No I fucking won’t.” Jamie charged towards him. “Cause I’ve got to slap you the fuck back into reality once again. What the fuck do you think’s going to happen in your fucking cunt muddled brain, ey? You going to get Tom to change his mind on the policy, single headedly get the party re-elected, then spend the rest of the days in the pretty arms of your pretty teacher who’s just _so_ fucking grateful that you helped her that her legs will stay spread forever?”

Malcolm tried not to get distracted by Jamie’s taunts. “I just want you to promise not to tell Steve _anything_ about the folder.”

“She’s fucking _using you_!” Jamie refused to back down. “We’ll be out of office, you’ll be out of a job, and she’ll be on her merry fucking way showing up on I’m A Celebrity or whatever other fucking cash grab there is out there.”

“Right, you’re going to shut the fuck up before we go Glasgow fucking rules here.” Malcolm snapped.

“I’m fucking up for it!” Jamie moved in closer when Malcolm pushed him away with a short jab.

“I’m fucking warning you.” Malcolm pointed his finger straight at his old friend who now stood poised for a fight. “You will not tell Steve a fucking whisper of a word that’s in her folder.”

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, telling me what to do?” Jamie challenged.

Malcolm kept him in a glare and tried to think of how he could threaten him, but he only came up blank. “Fine!” He suddenly relented in frustration. “I fucking admit it. I’m protecting her. I slept with her. I’m fucking crazy about her, _ok_? But I’m not fucking doing this all _just_ for her.”

“You’re whipped.”

“So what if I fucking am? I was fucking whipped by Tom and the fucking party before this – I’m fucking _eternally_ whipped! But at least now the cause is fucking good.”

“And she’s turned you into some sort of fucking crusader too! Fuck me!”

“You know she’s right.”

“I couldn’t give two shits that she’s right. Being right doesn’t win anything.”

“Makes you fight harder.”

“Makes you a fucking idiot.”

Malcolm gave a sigh as silence fell between them in the office, the both of them unwilling to let the other win.

“Look,” He tried again, he defences falling down. “You’re a friend, Jamie. My oldest fucking friend and I know you think I’m fucking mad but for all those years, for everything we’ve done – I just need to ask one favour. Just one thing, and then after, fuck, you have permission to fucking Godfather me, I don’t fucking care. Do not tell anyone, _particularly_ Steve, about what was in Clara’s folder. Please.”

Jamie stared him down, eyes fixed in defiance and anger. “You and me are done.” He spat, then finally flicked his eyes away and started past Malcolm towards the door when he suddenly stopped.

“One day.” He threw out over his shoulder then opened the door. “I’ll keep quiet for one fucking day.”

The door slammed and Malcolm was left alone in his office, when he slumped himself down on his desk in exhaustion and bitter relief and ran a weary hand over his face and through his hair with a sigh.

He could keep it together.

He could get through.

He had to.

Slowly he twisted his hand into his jacket pocket and retrieved his phone. Taking one steadying breath, he found Clara’s newly entered contact, and typed up a message.

“ _1pm today. Meet me at the Powell Estate_.”


	12. Chapter 12

The growl of the motorbike began to soften as Clara stepped down a gear and rounded the corner into the vast concrete grounds encircled by imposing concrete towers that was the Powell Council Estate For Low Income Families. Slowing her bike down as much as she could, she potted through the shadow of the empty car park and glanced around in an attempt to understand why on earth Malcolm would had asked her there during her lunch break, but with only an old man carrying shopping across the pavement, and two mothers gossiping on one of the overlooking balconies, she had no clue.

She took one final look then turned her bike around in a side slow circle and tried back the way she came in. A couple of teenage boys ran out in front of her with a football, forcing her to hold her tongue before she went straight into teacher-mode and berate them about skipping school – but she had no authority over them. And something about the look on their faces, a sort of joy and concentration as they artfully dribbled the ball past her and took over the cold car park and filled it with their shouts and cheers…it stopped her mouth in its track. Instead, she turned her head back forward and tried rounding one of the government buildings to see if she’d have any luck there.

The shadows opened up to grey sky as she made her way down the other side of the tower when she came across a single car, parked opposite an empty children’s playground, with one wheel haphazardly up on the gutter, and a fallen hubcap abandoned a few feet away. Clara couldn’t help but shake her head at the incompetency, when she spied the driver from the window, a hunched figure squished into the front seat of the compact car.

Her frown instantly transformed into an unabashed grin. Pulling over her motorbike to the curb quickly, before she reached the driver’s line of sight, she took off her helmet and gave her hair a small self-conscious ruffle, then strode over to the skewed car, opened the door, and promptly posited herself onto the front passenger seat.

“You really need to get yourself a new ride.” She tried to contain her smile as she turned to Malcolm and saw his knees jutting up in front of him as they were caught between the steering wheel and his own gaunt frame.

Clara watched as his expression turned from surprise at her entrance to something much less decipherable. “It’s my assistant’s.”

“Ah! Well you might have to give her a raise now on account of her liberated hubcap.” She teased with a smile then gave the acrid air a small sniff. “And the worn clutch too… when was the last time you even drove?”

“It’s been a bit.”

“How long a bit?”

“One or….ten years. Look it’s fucking London we’re talking about.” Malcolm rose his voice in weak defense. “And I have other people to do that shit for me – I am a very powerful fucking man, you know?”

“Oh I have first hand experience of that.” She said quietly, her words halting Malcolm in his tracks, and shifting his gaze fully to her, but she couldn’t let him get off that easily. “But for the sake of the three remaining hubcaps, I can drive you back to work if you like.”

His face instantly turned into steely determination. “I _can_ drive.”

“Yes but just because you _can_ , doesn’t mean you _should_.”

“The seat’s just fucked, right? I tried to adjust it but it’s more fucking stuck in its way than the fucking House of Lords.” He grumbled.

Clara just raised an eyebrow at him when an all too tempting thought came to her mind. Before she could have the chance to talk herself out of it, she fixed her face with a feigned professionalism, placed her motorcycle helmet down by her feet, then slowly began to lean herself over Malcolm’s lap.

His body instantly stiffened and she couldn’t help but smirk at the small intake of breath she managed to catch from his lips as she tried to shift herself through the narrow gap that his bent knees and firm stomach allowed, and reach her hand through to the other side of his seat before her face got too close to him, and before she gave into another temptation and lost herself the upper hand.

But her hand was taking too long to find the lever, and her pulse was already beginning to quicken as the smell and the electric proximity of him slowly began to intoxicate her sense of control…when her fingers finally grazed across a thin metal bar.

There.

With a firm grip she pulled the lever upwards, sending Malcolm springing back with a metallic clank, luckily bending his knees _just_ in time before they smacked into Clara’s hovering face on their way down.

Clara swiftly sat back up in her seat and gave him a self-satisfied smile, but he just glared.

“Fixed it.”

“You know I could have just done that on purpose to get you down there.”

“Yeah, you’re not that cunning.”

“I am _so_ cunning!”

“Yeah?”

“Did the extreme fucking wave of pleasure knock out your memory of last night?”

Clara was surprised at the little flutter in her chest. “Different kind.”

“Well I cover the whole fucking spectrum of cunning, love, I’m fucking Pink Floyd’s Iago.”

“I look forward to seeing that.” She looked him over with a small smile. “But for future reference – you don’t have to trick me down there.”

Malcolm paused for a moment, staring at her as if to test her sincerity, but she didn’t glance away. “Well then, I’m fucking taking a note of that.”

“An important note?”

“Fucking tattoo it across my eyeballs.” He finally cracked a grin, which made it impossible for her not to reflect on her own lips.

“Well before I drive you to the nearest tattoo parlour, is there a reason you called me to a council estate or did you just stall one too many times and give up on your way over?”

“I can drive.”

“As proven by the poor hubcap.”

Malcolm moved closer towards her. “I am _exactly_ where I planned to be.”

She shifted in her seat to match his magnetic gaze. “And what is this little plan of yours?”

Without another word, Malcolm quickly bridged the small distance between them and took her in with his lips.

Clara just smiled against him. Only a small amount of hours since she was last with him, since they shared their last small nip of a goodbye kiss, and already she was drinking him in like a parched wanderer. She knew she should take pause to scold herself about how easily she let him under her skin – they only just met, and he was complicated to say the least, probably verging on fucked up… but the argument lost all wind as quickly as it appeared. The fact was Malcolm just felt so surprisingly, thrillingly, terrifyingly _right_. And how the hell was she supposed to defend herself against that? She tried to shift closer to him, but the angle of the seat forced her to move her knee under herself awkwardly to hold on to their kiss. _Who knew she had a weakness for budget cars and suburban car parks_ , she smirked, _would have made her teenage years much more dangerous._

But thinking of that…

“The Powell Estate?” Clara suddenly pulled away from Malcolm with a confused look.

“Mhmmm?” Malcolm slowly reformed his consciousness, giving his lips a small lick.

“You invited me for our first date at the Powell Estate?”

Malcolm’s bushy brow lowered. “Again with the rhyming…”

“Am I supposed to be wooed by concrete…”

“…is this some fucking inevitable consequence of being an English teacher…”

“…and creepy abandoned playgrounds…”

“…do you text in haikus and fucking tweet in sonnets too?”

“Sonnets actually have a very particular structure that cannot fit in the 140 character limit.” She found herself snapping into auto-teacher-mode, which only made him smirk in amusement when she realized her unintended personality turn. “I mean… what were we talking about?”

“Our first date.”

“Exactly.”

“Which this isn’t.”

“What?”

“We haven’t had any dates.”

“So last night, and today…”

“Mere fucking drafts of a date. This is fucking version 0.2, right? Not a proper whole one.”

“Proper?” Clara couldn’t help but look at him with a small bit of wonder, as even though he kept his familiar serious glower on, there was something rare and precious being unveiled before her, something almost _sweet_ … “What, like dinner and dancing?”

“Well, dinner yes. Food’s always good.” Malcolm avoided her eyes in what she could only guess was a hint of shyness. “But fucked if I know where to go dancing – these days it’s all fucking pre-teens gyrating against coked-up fucking hedge fund managers to fucking mindless booming noises they may as well be listening to fucking Brian Blessed having multiple fucking orgasms, right?”

Clara just smiled to herself and brought a soft hand up to his face to coax his nervous gaze back to her. “We don’t need dancing.”

His cloudy blue eyes filled up her view. “You sure? There must be some fucking square dancing enthusiasts out there who haven’t already shot themselves out of boredom.”

“I’m sure. We don’t even need dinner.”

“Lunch?”

“No food. Just us.”

He looked at her for a moment, flicking back and forth from her eyes to her waiting lips. “Sounds pretty fucking fantastic.” He murmured with a husky voice.

“Does, doesn’t it…” She smiled back, when again their lips met in a fervent kiss. Her hands pulled him in by the lapels as his cupped themselves around her, trying and failing to bring their bodies closer within the awkward confines of the car. Clara finally gave up with their attempts, and opened her eyes with the intention of pulling away and suggesting that they drive to her place or at least relocate to the back seat, when she caught sight of three figures near the empty playground outside.

Clara froze mid-kiss, then pulled back properly to get a better look. “Is that…”

Malcolm looked surprised and a little saddened by her sudden distraction, but eventually followed her gaze and turned round to look outside his window to see what had stolen her focus from him, when his face immediately went stern.

“Ha.” Was all he managed.

“It’s that minister and her staffer.” Clara spotted the tall awkward man who had rushed her around the government department the day before, now nervously looking around the playground.

“Worst fucking timing as always…” Malcolm growled under his breath.

“And the guy from the press conference.” Her confusion only grew as she remembered the grey haired man who now was whispering in the minister’s ear as she kept checking her watch. “He put me in the line up for the tv….wait, what the _hell_ are they doing here?”

Malcolm just stared at them with a serious face. “I told them to come.”

“So… _not_ a date then?”

“Not unless you’re into sharing.”

“Yeah…” Clara looked back at the three uncomfortable government workers standing like clueless chickens out in the open. “Not with them.”

“Look at them,” Malcolm’s voice dripped with disdain. “You’d think they were fucking pre-marinated cuts of meat in a fucking wolf-infested forest the way they’re acting. So much for the party of the fucking people.”

“So you called them here to teach them a lesson in humility?”

“No.” Malcolm replied simply. “I called them here to get a new education policy.” He rolled down the window two inches and moved over to it, when Clara figured out his intention.

“Hold on.” She quickly stopped him, and he turned to face her with a confused brow. “You got a little smoodge.” She said softly, indicating her lip.

Malcolm self consciously touched his own lip, which was now smudged with the hint of her tinted lip balm, when she reached out a small thumb and gently rubbed the evidence away, then smoothed a palm over his short dishevelled curls in an attempt to return them to their proper place.

“Good.” She said with quiet satisfaction, looking him over.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Bolstered by her adjustments, he returned to the window and shouted out of the gap.

“Oi!” The three figures froze then turned to try and see where the call had come from. “Three Blind Cunts! Over here!”

The minister and her advisors immediately scuttled towards the car, and Clara watched as Malcolm’s face began to morph into something she remembered from when she first met him, but then her eyes trailed downwards to catch something _not_ professional. She quickly grabbed her motorcycle helmet from her feet before the others got into the car, and shoved it over to Malcolm.  
“Take it.” She ordered when he just stared at her blankly, but then his eyes swiftly followed hers down to his crutch… to which he promptly snatched the helmet from her hands and laid it over his lap when the rear doors opened and the three government stooges piled in the back seat.

  
“Ah, your seat!” The tall young one immediately complained behind Malcolm. “Could you move it up?”

“Complain again and I’ll ram it back even further you’ll end up a fucking Hobbit.” Malcolm barked back like a disgruntled dad on a road trip.

“Jesus Malcolm,” The older advisor slammed the door shut on his side, leaving the minister squished between the two. “How do you manage in such a tiny car?”

“It’s fucking Sam’s, alright? I borrowed it.” Malcolm grumbled. “And it’s fucking bigger on the inside when you cockups aren’t fucking in it.”

“Well it’s not like we bloody invited ourselves Malcolm.” The minister huffed, when her eyes caught hold of Clara, sitting silently away from them all in the front. “And what in _Christ’s name_ is she doing here?”

“She’s with us.” Malcolm replied simply, to which the politician’s face dropped in disbelief.

“ _With us??_ You almost fucking summarily executed me with a bald point pen yesterday just for bloody _talking_ with her!”

“Yeah well times fucking change, right – just like your dress size.”

“You made me a known member of the Cabal!”

“You made it known your fucking self with your own fucking incompetency.”

“Same can be said for you now that the office rumours turned out to be true.” The young man piped up and pointed an accusatory finger at Clara, to which she couldn’t help but speak out against.

“Oi! At the time was still against me.” She glared at the advisor.

“Then why isn’t he now?” The minister jumped in.

“Because witch-hunts burn you whether you’re fucking innocent or not.” Malcolm took over. “They’re just out for blood. So if you get accused then you may as well curse a couple cunts before you die. We’re all in this sinking boat together now. No one trusts us. That’s why we can only meet in the fucking arse end of nowhere if we want to get anything done.”

“We’re on the party black list Malcolm, to be politely shown out the door as soon as the election’s over - what the hell can we get done now?” The minister gave up.

“New education policy.”

“Ha!”

“The Mitchell Report. Four years ago. Got glowing fucking recommendations by all the specialists but couldn’t get passed the committee.”

“It’s a dead bill.”

“Then we fucking resurrect it.”

“How?”

“The election’s in two weeks: we fucking hold the party hostage.” A deathly silence fell over the small car as all faces turned expectedly to Malcolm, whose grave face unexpectedly began to crack a small knowing smile. “In any race, there are only three simple things you need to win:

 _Leadership, Strength and Unity._ ”


	13. Chapter 13

Clara hugged her teacher’s folder close to her chest as she weaved around the peak hour tide of weary civil servants flowing down the cold pavement towards the tube station in the fading light of the afternoon, and manoeuvred her way into the bright, sterile foyer of the Shadow Government Ministries Office.

Raising a proud chin up, she stood out in stark contrast to the hurried exiting workers, even making sure to try and catch whoever she could in eye contact as they passed by. A few pairs met her gaze and widened slightly in recognition, but she kept her sure path forward, into the translucent depths of the department foyer, when she glimpsed a tall young man with a mop of light brown hair bounding up to her from the stairs like an unco-ordinated gazelle.

“Miss Oswald!” The man hurried through the foyer with a large palm held out in front. “I’m Phil Smith, senior advisor here. Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too.” Clara accepted his hand with a slightly dazed expression at his fervent enthusiasm.

“I’m here to take you through to the meeting.” He explained, but only became rooted to his spot in front of her.

“Great!” Clara tried to match his tone with forced eagerness, but he still remained still. There was an awkward silence, as Clara looked him up and down, wondering if he was purposely stalling or just completely thick. “Thank you…” She tried again to kick-start his motion, but still he didn’t move, just smiled down at her obliviously.

“You’re very welcome.”

Clara tapped her finger lightly against the cover of her folder and raised her eyebrows at him overdramatically, to which he only mirrored her expression back at her, again remaining in his place, while the foyer gradually emptied around them.

Clara gave up.

“So…shall we…?” She began to prompt, when his eyes darted open in realisation.

“Oh! Yes of course!” He finally darted into action. “Right this way, Miss Oswald – I will be your guide through the Dead Marshes of public bureaucracy!” They began to head up the stairs as Clara attempted to his her smile at his inappropriate reference, but the advisor must have realised it too, quickly turning back round to her with an apologetic look. “I mean, that’s not to say that makes you a Hobbit, per se, even though you’re a little…” He gauged his accentuated height over her as he stood a few steps above when his long face began to redden slightly. “…I was more thinking you’re like an elf – face-wise, that is… maybe I should have chosen a better metaphor…”

“It did also make you ‘Gollum’…” Clara played along.

“Ha-ha it did, didn’t it?” He gave a slightly goofy smile as they began to ascend the glass railed stairs once more. “Shit metaphor all round then– ”

“Miss Oswald.” Phil’s awkward rambling was cut short by a young blonde woman standing before them on the landing of the stairs, a polite smile trained on her lips as her eyes shifted from Clara to the advisor.

“Emma.” His cheerful voice dropped slightly as he greeted the surprise addition to their conversation, then turned back to Clara. “This is my college Em—”

“Emma Messinger, advisor to Peter Mannion.” The now-identified woman finished off the greeting. “It’s an honour to meet you Miss Oswald, if you follow me I’ll take you up to the conference room.”

Phil just looked confused. “But I..”

“Yes?” His female counterpart asked serenely.

“I thought…”

“No.”

“But…”

“Peter wants you to meet Stewart when he arrives. Downstairs.”

“He does?”

“Said something about being his _eyes and ears_.” Emma Messinger continued, obviously leading him on, as his face began to glow with what she believed could be called pride, to which Clara couldn’t help but find amusing.

“Right then! I better head off!” The lanky man promptly turned back down then stairs and tumbled down to the foyer without even a final glance or goodbye to them both, when the other advisor stepped into her path and held her hand out before them.

“This way, Miss Oswald.” She smiled, and they started upwards. “Thank you for agreeing to meet us, would you like a cup of tea or…”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Clara gave her a knowing look. “You know, I’ve got a boy in year 10 just like him.”

“Sorry?” The advisor glanced back, slightly confused.

“Weird Al back there.” Clara explained happily. “You ran in to save me before he sucked me into the void of nerd, didn’t you?”

Emma paused slightly, eyes flicking over her in appraisal, when she gave up with the slightest of sighs. “That obvious, was it?”

“Like I said – I know a boy.” Clara conceded.

“Not sure if being reminiscent of a 14 year old is something to be proud of…”

“Well, at least he smells better than one.” She offered.

“Good to know those 3 years at Cambridge weren’t completely useless.” Emma gave a wry smile to which Clara joined conspiratorially as they reached the correct level of the building. “Sorry for jumping in so abruptly.” The advisor eased into a more casual demeanour. “Phil may be good at policy – _don’t_ tell him I said that – but he does have the social skills of cave algae.”

Clara moved beside her as they made their way through the rows of cubicles. “Does seem like cave algae is quite rampant in this line of work…”

“I suspect it feeds off the testosterone.”

“Thank god you’re here to help starve it out.” Clara gave her a friendly smile.

“Well, if you decide to help us out with the education policy, maybe we can double our oestrogen attack.” Emma slowed down as they approached a glass-frosted room. “We girls need to stick together. Strength in numbers, you know.”

Clara’s breath hitched in her throat as the advisor began to open the door to the conference room and the gravity of the situation she had willingly put herself into had finally hit her properly, but she forced her nerves down with a smile and grasped her folder tighter.

“Oh believe me, I know.”

 

00000000000000000000000000000000

 

_“Strength and unity mean the same thing.”_

_Malcolm glared at Ollie from around the stump of the driver’s seat. “Of course they mean the same fucking thing. But can we just, for one moment in fucking time, pretend they’re two different concepts – just for the sake of fucking clarity?”_

_Ollie squirmed slightly in his seat, his knees shoved up uncomfortably close to his body when he finally met Malcolm’s fierce gaze. “Fine.”_

_“Fucking Thank You.” He looked over the other occupants of the car, although avoiding Clara beside him. He needed to keep his wits about him, and needed to keep their (relationship? affair? mess?)…‘thing’ private, which it definitely would not be if her looked at her and remembered the feel of her lips upon his own just moments ago. So instead he kept his head and gaze fixed to the snivelling fools of DoSAC in the back._

_“So like I was saying, before I got interrupted by fucking malnourished Stephen Fry over there, it doesn’t matter what your policies are, if you have these three things you’re going to get elected:_

_One, you need to be strong in your convictions, even if they’re fucking wrong. No one likes a flip flopper. Two, you need leadership, or at least the fucking veneer of it – when it comes down to it, people would rather follow then have to do all the fucking work themselves. And finally: Unity. We all remember secondary school. No one wants that shit to be happening in the halls of fucking power.” He looked over the waiting faces, still not convinced by his words. “This is the holy fucking trinity, the key that will get our party safely through the election, save our own necks, and get an actual good policy through that we might even be a little fucking proud of. All we need to do is grab it ourselves, then ransom it off.”_

_Nicola just frowned. “It’s all well and good you’ve got yourself some master-plan, but the fact is we’re all, to put it simply, Fucked. I’ve got less authority than Alan fucking Davis, how on earth do you think we’d get away with this?”_

_“We go fucking Judo. Use whatever shit strands of opportunity left to us to turn their momentum against them and twist it up their own fucking arse.”_

_“Beautiful imagery as always Malcolm, but we are currently squashed in a Skoda on a council estate like we’re about to go for a cheeky fucking Nando’s - I don’t see any bloody opportunity here.” The minister huffed._

_“Opportunity’s sitting right here.” He twisted a smile as he held up a hand in front of Clara, who he finally allowed himself to look at, hoping she didn’t have her bullocking face on for dropping her in the deep-end, but luckily is was just confusion on her face, as was mirrored by the rest of the car. “Miss Clara Oswald,” He continued, unable to deny how good her name felt rolling out from his mouth. “unlike the three of you spineless sacks of fucking pond-scum, is a pro-active fucking cookie. She booked in a meeting with the opposition, hoping she could play the two parties off each other and get what she wants: a proper fucking education policy. Now, you might say this is one naïve fucking idea, that she must be fucking tripping on the fermented brains of Walt fucking Disney to believe an English teacher from fucking no-where with no power, can string up the two major parties of the United Kingdom and have them fucking bob along to her own whim…” He stole a look across at Clara, whose brow had slightly lowered “…but give me a stripy top and call me Freddy fucking Krueger, cause I’m about to make this dream come true.” Malcolm shifted slightly in the cramped space of the front seat to worm a long hand into his trouser pocket to pull out an old, worn brick of a Nokia mobile, and presented it out to Clara._

_Her eyes narrowed in bemusement at the surprise offering. “…You want me to challenge the parties to a game of Snake…?”_

_“Burner phone. I’ll need you to contact me after your meeting with the opposition.”_

_“So I’m still meeting them?”_

_“Yes – in fact you’re going to move your appointment forward. To this afternoon, to be more specific.”_

_Clara collected the phone from his palm, momentarily letting the tips of her fingers ghost over his sensitive skin, as Malcolm tried hard to keep his cold expression sharp, and the shiver from running up his arm. She considered the mobile in her hand for a beat, then looked back up at Malcolm with her large brown eyes, quietly ticking away in thought._

_“My plan won’t work anymore – pretending to be cosy with the opposition will just make your guys attack me stronger now.”_

_“Don’t you remember my three point plan?” Malcolm was surprised by the softness of his voice as a smile threatened to lift the corner of his lips. “You need to make our party look strong. And if you’ve spent even one minute with the menagerie of damp fucking tissues that is Our Party – you’ll know making us strong would be harder than Richard Gere in a fucking pet shop – so instead you’re going to do it the tried and true fucking way…”_

_Malcolm gave a big toothy grin._

_“…you’re going to make the opposition look weak.”_

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

“Imagine there’s a party.”

Clara attempted to restrain her eyebrow from rising skeptically as the opposing head of DoSAC clasped his hands together and started with a low, droll voice, while she sat on the other side of the table in the small conference room, just her and the two ministers, with Emma the advisor watching on from the corner. “That is to say, not a _political party_ – ” Peter Mannion stumbled to correct himself.

“A birthday party.” The Shadow Secretary of Education, Michael Wallis, jumped in beside him.

“Or a dinner.”

“A birthday dinner.”

“Just… there’s a party. Any party.” Mannion forced out in a passive aggressive tone, which failed to be softened by his sagging face.

“- with many guests.” Wallis took charge of the allegory. “And suppose every one of these guests has a different preference for food – ”

“ _Dietary requirements_ they call it these days.” Clara caught the smallest hint of derision in Mannion’s tone.

“One of them is, say a vegetarian, vegan, gluten intolerant…”

“Say there’s an Indian fellow there who--”

“— _just_ some guest who prefers spicy food.” Wallis quickly redirected his associate’s comment as Clara snuck a look at Emma who seemed to have closed her eyes in a silent groan of embarrassment. “Surely you can’t have the caterer serve one stock standard dish. Some may enjoy the roast beef with all the trappings, but others will just eat a fraction of it, and end up hungry and tired, and that sounds like a horrible party, doesn’t it?” The round balding face of Wallis looked to Clara for approval.

“Of course.” Was all she allowed.

“Of course!” Wallis seemed encouraged by her agreement. “So wouldn’t it just be better and easier to serve a buffet?”

“A selection of choices…” Mannion attempted to step in.

“Spread out for your guests to pick and choose.”

“They could just have the roasted vegetables.”

“Or go straight to pudding.”

“Without the guests having the pressure to meet the standard of others who may devour the plate of food, they are free to go at their own pace. Maybe even get creative, make a little, you know how one can sculpt a little, make a bit of art with the side of mash potatoes-”

“-or paint with gravy.” Wallis added enthusiastically.

“This is all to say—” Emma finally gave up squirming in frustration in the corner of the room, and leaned over in her chair slightly to grasp Clara’s attention and cut through the devolving rambles of the two ministers. “We think your views on education fit very well with our party’s policy.” Her mouth tweaked into a small knowing smile for Clara as her bumbling superiors glanced around to her. “Cave Algae translation.”

Clara gave Emma a slight smile in acknowledgement, when Mannion turned back forward to her. “Yes that’s – that’s exactly it.” He flubbed slightly. “ _You_ wish to set students free from being forced to reached arbitrary marks – and _we_ wish to take control out from the out-of-touch government, and into the hands of the school itself.”

“It’s a match made in heaven!” Wallis clasped his hands together erratically.

“Does seem like it.” Clara said neutrally, causing the two ministers to light up in victory.

“Wonderful.” Mannion leaned back in his chair with content relief, while Clara tried to steady her ever-increasing heartbeat as she neared the edge of anticipation. Almost there… “We have a press conference set for tomorrow morning, it would be an honour if you would stand beside us as we mark out for the public our ideas for the future, together. Emma here will grab your details for the car to come and pick you up—”

Now.

“Oh, I’m not supporting you.” Clara stated simply.

The ministers froze instantly in surprise. “…I’m sorry?” Wallis held on to his polite veneer.

Clara’s heart raced even faster as a wave of adrenaline pulsed through her veins, and shifting her expression to a serious glare, a silent prayer ran through her head, pleading that this would work. “I don’t agree with your policy, and I’m not going to be at your press conference: I am not supporting you.”

“But we match!” Mannion stumbled. “You said it yourself just then – a match made in heaven.”

“I said _it seemed_.” Clara watched them coldly. “From a strictly superficial glance at our two propositions, yes, it does seem like they would fit well together. But this is not some stupid dinner, where the worst result is someone getting a little miffed over the choice of sauce - this is the future of our country we’re talking about. Basing a child’s education on the ever shifting mantle of _preference_ just makes it more likely they become more isolated from others who do not share the same whim. Schools are not just about subjects, but exposing a child to other people, perspectives and lives. To force them to learn how to live with other human beings before stamp an ‘adult’ label on them and send them out into the world. If we give schools the ability to decide for themselves how to run, they will only attract similar people, and over time create little bubbles of separation. And that’s not even mentioning the fact that this independent policy helps bring the element of profit into schools, which if you think the methods of capitalism are beneficial to growing an emotionally and creatively competent person, then you need check yourself back into school and a better education on the flaws of human nature.

But even ignoring all these flaws in your proposals, the very fact that you are ignorant enough to presume I would so happily agree to support you in your brazen policy, without a single thought to ask for my own ideas of collaboration means you have far less interest in education, and far more in drowning the telly with never ending footage of my pretty young face smiling next to yours. And while not having the foresight to identify problematic policy is one thing, not giving a shit about it altogether is far, _far_ worse.” She cut the silenced ministers with a look, then promptly flicked into a triumphant smile.

“So no. I won’t support you tomorrow. Not with this policy. You could actually make this a proper collaboration and state in your little conference how you are going to take in elements of overhauling the testing system and increasing focus on the creative subjects – but if you come out to the press with the same piss weak excuse for a policy you just presented to me now, I don’t see why I shouldn’t post my own video detailing everything wrong with it, and with your party. I’m sure that will manage to rake in a couple of views, don’t you think?”

She pouted then stood up from the table with an air of victory as the ministers shook themselves out of their defeated stupor and scrambled out of their chairs to meet her. “It’s all your choice. Just a couple of points away from winning this election and I could help. You’re sinking to the bottom and I have the lifesaver, but it’s up to you if I throw it in, or if I remain sitting back in sun with my Pina Colada complete with a mini umbrella and watch you fucking drown.” She gave a final polite smile, then quickly turned in her place and strode out of the conference room, leaving the ministers and Emma in her wake.

Making her way through the open plan hallway of the shadow government office, her head throbbed with the pumping of her blood, every footstep sank to the floor like a dead weight as adrenaline and apprehension coursed through her in a maddening cocktail of emotions – so excited about what she had done, yet terrified someone was just a step behind, about to catch her.

She kept her gaze forward and head up as she reached the stairs and methodically and self-consciously she took every slow step down.

Still no one had called her name.

Maybe she had gotten away with it.

Or maybe they had found her out.

Finally she made her way to the landing when her internal clock that had been clicking away ominously inside her head had stopped. Her breath hitched and her feet felt rooted to the cold stone of the stairs, but she turned around, and took the first step back up to where she came from.

No stopping her now.

With ever increasing speed, she climbed up the stairs and strode back down the line of office cubicles on her way back to the conference room, and with one final fortifying breath, she grasped the door handle with her small hand, and made her way back in to the meeting.

The ministers were still standing, but now Phil, the awkward advisor who had greeted her before, and some other man, slightly balding and wearing a bright pink shirt, had joined them. Their raised voices immediately froze into silence as Clara stepped in, and their faces turned to her in surprise.

“Sorry.” Clara’s voice came out a little smaller than she had hoped, under the questioning gaze of the others. “I um… I left my folder here.”

The men’s brows rose in surprise, then lowered as they silently looked around at the floor when both Emma and the pink-shirted man discovered Clara’s lonely blue teacher’s folder leaning against a leg of the table between them. They both bent down to pick it up but Emma got there first, and Clara watched with ever increasing nervousness as she lightly held in her hands, walked through the still silent ministers and held the folder precariously out to her.

Clara claimed it as quickly as she could, and snuggled it against her chest. “Thanks.” She gave a small friendly smile to Emma then glanced over her shoulder to see the pink-shirted man’s face begin to darken in thought.

She had to go.

“My proposition still stands. So, I look forward to hearing from you soon.” She gave the others a nod, then headed out the door as quickly she could without raising any suspicion. Her palms began to sweat as she clutched her folder, praying everything had gone to plan, when she reached the elevator and swiftly sprung past the closing doors and into the relief of the empty and private box.

Her breathing remained frozen as she quickly presented her folder in front of her, before the elevator could open to another level, and opened it up.

There, wedged into the thin clear plastic pocket on the inside of the cover, was her phone.

Clara let out a bright laugh of victory and utter relief.

She did it.

She bloody did it.

Her hands trembled slightly in excitement as she wormed the device out from its flimsy holder, and typed out the pass code to see a slowly increasing time code fill up the screen. With a grin, she pressed down on the small red button and the numbers paused.

Stage one complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to flydye8 on this chapter - the plot idea has been a long time coming


	14. Chapter 14

_“One question.”_

_Malcolm halted himself mid-monologue when Clara’s steady voice rose up from under his grizzled brogue, causing him to angle his body towards her within the tight confines of the car, in silent offering for her to continue, to which she gave him a fleeting, private smile of thanks, when he silently noticed her small hand was clasped around the old Nokia phone as if it were her last life line._

_“And I understand this might be a stupid question to ask…” She shifted her gaze over to the others squished into the back seat of Sam’s Skoda “…but besides having to handle teenage girls every day, this is my first foray into any political machinations – ” Her eyes flicked back to his own, claiming them effortlessly. “Say I do plant my phone. Say I give them a sound bullocking, head out, wait for a minute, then return and collect my phone again without any of them suspecting a thing – say I pull all this whole thing off: How do we know it will be worth the risk? How do we know I won’t just record two minutes of them arguing about who should eat the last biscuit?”_

_“Y’ever been on the receiving end of one of your tirades?” Malcolm let the words slip out of his smile-tipped mouth before he could put himself in check for being far too personal in front of the DoSACs of useless phlegm when Clara popped an eyebrow. “I hate to instil a lack of confidence in your nation’s leaders Miss Oswald,” he hurried to cover himself up “but the sad truth is - our present minister excluded (but even she has her own fucking moments… ” he threw a smile at Nicola, her arms crossed tight in disapproval “rare though they fucking be) – the fucking sad, embarrassing truth of it all is that your elected representatives have the backbones of fucking jellied eels, and are as fucking palatable to match. This close to the election, the polls now almost tying – you need only to make a disparaging fucking remark on their choice of fucking shoes, and the entire House of Commons will spend a whole fucking day arguing about how to chop their fucking feet off.”_

_“But if they don’t? If we don’t record anything…” Clara questioned simply._

_“Then… I’d be impressed by the fucking opposition.” Malcolm threw out in a shrug._

_“Well we can’t have that, can we?” Clara quipped with a smooth voice and looked up at him with teasing smile on her plump, red lips, which caused a jolt of panic to shoot through his awkwardly seated body._

_Was she flirting?_

_Was he flirting?_

_It had been a fucking age and a half since the last time he flirted with someone else in the hope of sexual fucking reciprocation, and not as some calculated machiavellian move on an unsuspecting political pawn – he couldn’t remember what the border lines were anymore. He knew to avoid red flags like teasing of complimenting her, but just talking about meeting the sagging human ball-sack Peter Mannion and he felt life his feet were hopping along in some intricate fucking mating dance without his brain having a fucking clue as to what he was doing._

_Not like it hadn’t worked out well for himself so far though, as gasps of the night before skipped back into his thoughts – but still, he hampered down his reverie, the point stood that in front of this sad audience he had no idea what he did, and no idea what he was doing._

_But maybe they knew._

_Maybe they could see it._

_His eyes shot over the backseat bastards in a vain, hurried attempt to interpret their hidden thoughts when Glenn, squished thoughtlessly into the corner with half his body pressed up against the car door, pulled himself up slightly by the roof handle and spoke up._

_“I don’t mean to put a damper on your plan, Michael Caine,” His droll voice filled the car “but even if we do get the perfect recording you’ll still face the problem of how to – ”_

_“Make our party look like fucking leaders.” Malcolm quickly diverted as soon as he suspected where Glenn’s inquiry was going. He couldn’t talk about that. Not with Clara there._

_“No that’s – ”_

_“More hopeless than having a Lemming in charge of fucking Suicide Watch. But that’s why you’re here.”_

_“I thought it was to break the record of insults per square foot.”_

_“No, I broke that last week in the Foreign Ministry’s fucking broom closet. You’re here to here to help her.” Malcolm aimed his sight forward to Nicola and pointed a sharp finger directly at her as she attempted to sink into the car’s seat in an escape._

_“Me?” Her small voice questioned._

_“Well it was your complete fucking inability to form proper sentences in front of the press that got us on this whole fucking path in the first place…” Malcolm raised a smug brow “… I think it should help take us all the way home.”_

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Clara bundled into her apartment, haphazardly dropping her motorcycle helmet and teacher’s folder onto the hallway bench, held her keys from her mouth as she pried off her leather jacket from under the straps of her bag and made her way as quickly as she could to her living room, to which she flung her keys and jacket onto the couch and ferreted through her work bag in search of her unexpected gift.

She smiled when her fingers caught smooth plastic, and pulling out the plain, old Nokia mobile phone, she tossed her bag away and tapped down on the tacky rubber keypad, following a long forgotten memory of where the contacts hid.

She couldn’t contain her little snort of laughter when she discovered that the sole number sorted was under the name of “Shaft”. It was either laugh or groan. She shook her head lightly when she pressed down on the alias and brought the nostalgic phone to her ear, just in time to hear the ringing stop.

“Not going to comment about your name.” Clara went out first in mock seriousness.

“You commented just then.” She couldn’t stop the tingle from running up her spine as Malcolm’s deep voice filled her ear. “What, doesn’t it suit me?”

“Fishing for compliments, are we?”

“Ah, so it you think it does!”

“I didn’t – ”

“Good thing I can’t come over tonight then, wouldn’t want you to get worn out…”

“How’s your neck feeling? Little sore still?”

“… touché.”

Clara smiled to herself, then raised her brow haughtily. “But for the record – yes, the name does suit you. I currently very satisfied by your penis, current problem of separation not withstanding.”

“And I am terribly satisfied by your vagina.” Malcolm attempted an English accent to mixed success. “And would like to see more of it in future, in fact. You could come along too, if you’d like.”

“How considerate.”

“Thought so too.”

“So, you want to keep talking about your generous endowment or shall we listen to the tape?” Clara returned to her abandoned bag and withdrew her iPhone.

“From one dick to the fucking next.” Malcolm murmured to himself. “You listened to it yet?”

“Haven’t had the chance yet.”

“Nervous?”

“And excited.” Clara flopped onto her couch as her mind began to race again. “I get why you’ve stayed in the job for so long though – it’s a rush. Just letting go and heaping it on them when all they could do was gawp like bloody great fish, the adrenaline’s still rushing through me. I went Full Malcolm. You’dve been proud of me. Even used one of your old lines.”

“Oh?”

“Pool side with Pina Coladas.”

“Well I know what’s going to be the top of my fucking wank bank now.”

“Shall we?”

“Not just yet – we’ve got a cold shower with fucking Susan Boyle booked first.”

“The radio interview?”

“Started a few minutes ago.”

“Bugger – ” Clara cursed herself under her breath and reached over to her coffee table to grab her stereo’s remote when she heard a dark chuckling over the phone.

“What?” She paused, remote in hand.

“Did you just say fucking _‘bugger’_?” Malcolm remained laughing.

“What if I did?” She asked carefully.

“Good thing only I heard it, wouldn't want fucking Mother Superior to washing your mouth out with fucking soap.”

“I work with children, ok – it helps to keep a lid on cussing.”

“And here’s me thinking I’d be a bad fucking influence.”

“Don’t you have a radio show to listen to?”

“Been listening to it this whole time.” His smugness practically oozed from the phone.

“Well aren’t you the multi-tasker.” Clara grumbled back and turned her stereo on, switching quickly through the channels to find the right frequency, when Nicola Murray’s voice stumbled out through her speakers. “And if anyone’s the influence, it’s me.”

“Don’t I fucking know it.”

Clara settled into the couch more comfortably and turned up the volume. “So, she said anything yet?”

“She has talked incessantly and said fuck-all, just as she was instructed to do. I’d almost be a little fucking pleased with her if I wasn’t fucking barraged with fucking PTSD flashbacks of all the times she’s been a fucking twat.”

“No education talk?”

“Just pleasantries. But the lass interviewing her isn’t one to prance a-fucking-round, so no doubt it will come up soon.”

“You think it will be enough?”

“I think it’ll be a puny fucking puft of a fart, but in the maelstrom of a self-perpetuating echo chamber that is the press during elections, it would have gathered so much weight by the time your recording drops tomorrow morning, it will be a fucking typhoon of excrement, that the party will have to fucking beg us to let them avoid it.”

“Judo.” Clara smiled in remembrance.

“Fucking Judo.” Malcolm responded softly but then there was a sudden silence, and the sound of Nicola’s rambling echoed through the phone, when his gruff voice crashed back. “Hold on here we go…”

Clara instinctively sat up on the couch and brought the volume up even further, her breathe stilling slightly as she turned her focus to the presenter’s smooth voice.

“…remiss to mention what many consider to be the highlight of the campaign, which of course you literally held centre stage – ”

“Ha ha yes of course…” Nicola’s nervous voice rang out.

“You’re quite the YouTube star.”

“Yes, um, next I’ll be going into makeup tutorials.”

“I’d sell my fucking soul to read those YouTube comments.” Malcolm cut in with a growl, to which Clara could only shush him or loose her concentration completely.

“Over three million views so far, it’s been discussed and dissected by seemingly every news program this week – obviously it has struck a chord with the public.” The woman on the radio continued.

“A very loud chord.” Nicola agreed. “Though not… _too_ loud to make it annoying, of course, just the _right_ level of loudness to make it noticed and made aware of but um, not enough to burst anyone’s ear drums ha ha.”

“Fucking wordsmith you are!” Clara rolled her eyes as Malcolm’s voice seemed a bit distant as he insulted his radio. “Someone give her a fucking book deal!”

“Well you say it has been noticed, but that come as a surprise to some…” The presenter continued “…one of the main points of discussion has been what the government’s reaction will be, when it seems all we’ve been getting is silence.”

“We’ve _struck a chord_ of silence.” Nicola attempted.

“Oh fuck the book deal she’s moved on to fucking song writing instead!” Malcolm coughed in disbelief.

“I’m sorry?” The presenter stilled.

“Simon and fucking Cuntfunkel!”

“The chord.” The minister stuttered to explain. “There are many variations of, ah, notes, and of course, of silence…”

“You must understand why it can seem to the outside world that your party has no idea how to respond to this and you are just buying for time.”

“Well, Jonnah, like I’ve been trying to tell you, there are many types of silence.”

“ _Of course_.”

“There is the silence of confusion, but there can also be the silence of intention.”

“Intention?”

“Precisely.”

“You mean to say the Prime Minister is being _intentionally_ silent on the matter of education?”

“Well, when someone speaks your thoughts first, is it considerate to immediately echo them?”

“…I’m sorry?”

“The Prime Minister is not confused in his response when long before the incident he was already bringing up the Mitchell Report to cabinet and we…” Nicola fell silent.

“Fuckin’ aye!”

“Mrs Murray?” The presenter stumbled.

“Hmm?”

“Did you… you just mentioned the Mitchell Report.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. Just then.”

“Well… It um..”

“To think I ever fucking doubted her.” Malcolm let out in uncomfortable awe.

“The Mitchell Report is, if listeners are not aware, a detailed review and consultation of the nation’s education system, led by Ken Mitchell, world renowned educator, lecturer, and in his own way, a YouTube star too. The former PM invited Mitchell to head the investigation, and indeed many sweeping changes were proposed, but it all seemingly fell to the wayside as no one has heard any more about it in over five years. Did you just say that the Prime Minister has considered enacting these reforms?”

“I…”

“That he has been considering this well before the Coal Hill conference?”

“Interesting word… _consider_ … it has both its pros, and indeed its _cons_ …”

“Do you retract what you just said?”

“…no.”

“Then you stand by what you revealed.”

“Yes, but what _did_ I reveal?”

“That the PM is and has been, strongly considering bringing in the Mitchell Report’s proposed policy changes.”

“Or did I just reveal that the Prime Minister is a strong and visionary leader, prepared to continue to guide this great nation into the future, but I’m sure we all know that already…”

“ _No_ , Mrs Murray you revea… I’m sorry it that -- ?” The presenter died off unexpectedly.

“Cue Colonel Fucking Bland.” Malcolm prompted, when Nicola dove back in with her prepared drivel.

“Unlike the opposition, who still seem to think we’re stuck in the 1980s, our party, and most especially the Prime Minister, underst—”

“I’m sorry Mrs Murray but there seems to be a man gesticulating wildly at you in our control room.” The presenter interrupted with a slightly bemused tone.

“Well… that um…” Nicola stuttered.

“I believe it is your political aide… and it looks like he’s one the phone too – could it be your party’s communications agents have called him up?”

“It ah… who am I to guess who…”

“Is it possible you have revealed too much to us tonight?”

“I have not…I mean I have…”

“Seems you’ve struck a chord of silence of your very own.” The presenter teased dryly.

“Well, you can call me Al!” Nicola burst out, to which Clara’s face fell into her palm in second-hand embarrassment.

“Mission fucking accomplished.” Malcolm sighed into her ear. “Where’s that recording?”

Clara sat up on the couch. “Shouldn’t we keep listening? She could – ”

“She’s dropped the seed, and Glenn fucking stamped it into the dirt – it’s all done. She’ll keep fucking stuttering along like a hypothermic nutter but the interviewer will get so fucking bored with her eventually, she’ll drop the whole thing just to get her to shut up.”

“Right” Clara turned off the radio and folded her legs up underneath herself. “So now we just wait for the seed to grow.”

“Into a great fucking Oak of Here-say.”

Clara cracked into an enthusiastic grin. “So… track 2?”

“Play it, DJ Oswald!”

Clara picked up her iPhone in excited expectation and just a little bite of doubt. Nicola’s bluff was one thing, but without getting the right recording of the opposition, it could all just end up going nowhere. Opening up the audio file, she scanned back a couple of minutes from the end, calculating her time of exit. Her thumb hovering over the play button, she gently bit the side of her lip, then lunged in, headfirst.

“…manage to rake in a couple of views, don’t you think?” Clara’s own voice scratched out of the iPhone, tinny and distant, as she held it close to the ancestral Nokia.

“Snarky.” Came Malcolm’s commentary. “I like it.”

She listened with an ever-increasing smile as she finished off her victims with newfound flourish, when her political mentor dropped in again.

“You weren’t fucking kidding, were you?”

“Proud?”

“And fucking horny.”

“Shh – this is it.”

“…mini umbrella and watch you fucking drown.” Her past self concluded, when there was a slight pause in the recording.

“Well…” Emma’s voice broke the silence. “That was a disaster.”

“Oh really Emma – was it just?” Peter Mannion huffed back. “Thank the fucking lord you’re here, grand-translator of tits, otherwise we’d have no fucking clue how that just went.”

“I did warn you – ” Emma continued.

“And look what bloody good that did! Fucking no use making snide remarks of my trousers if you could just throw me a new pair when I’ve fucking soiled these.”

“Where’s Steward?” Michael Wallis interjected. “We need to figure out what to do.”

“Oh he’s bound to show up soon. Unwanted and unseen.” Mannion bemoaned. “Much like malignant fucking cancer. Or a new Madonna album.”

“Was that Miss Oswald just back - ” Clara recognised the other aide, Phil Smith’s, voice step in.

“And just like a fucking prayer…” Mannion exclaimed.

“Is it just me, or did that meeting go a little short?” A new voice, which she could only belong to the previously discussed ‘Stewart’ stepped in.

“Disastrously short.” Mannion corrected.

“What do you mean? Didn’t you employ the framework of conceptualization?”

“Oh we did – conceptualized the sprouts, the bloody trifle, everything!”

“And?”

“Didn’t work.”

“I should have known you’d fuck it up.”

“We fucked it correctly, thank you, but it was such an idiotic _fuck_ an idea in the first place – sorry, idiotic fuck of _‘framework’ –_ that it had nowhere to fuck but up!”

“She’s going to go after us.” Wallis started mumbling in worry. “Our one bloody trump card over those bastards and you ruined it.”

“What, _I_ ruined it?” Mannion seemed dumbfounded.

“Doesn’t help she thinks we’re all racists.”

“Indians like spicy food!”

“You can’t say that to millenials!” Stewart ordered.

“Hell, _I_ like spicy food!” Mannion continued. “Can’t bloody eat I any more thanks to my puritanical fucking doctor and overbearing wife but – ”

“ _Please_ , keep rambling, because it’s not like your vomiting out trains of fucking thought have in any way cost us this election!” Wallis blew up.

“It is _your_ crappy policy to begin with!”

“Well I can’t get her to help us change it now!”

“We need an alternate stratagem…”

“She wouldn’t go near you with a fucking gallon of mace…”

“We need her on our side…”

“We’re fucked…”

“We need…”

“I can’t…”

“…”

“Sorry.” Clara’s breath hitched as her own voice cut clear through the chaos. “I um… I left my folder in here.”

Stop.

She sat in silence

Clara’s mouth sprang into a smile, which she tried to bring back in control, but then sprang back regardless.

“Like headless fucking chickens running round…” Malcolm’s steady timbre returned.

“…yelling that the sky’s falling down.” She finished off for him.

“You did well.”

“I did _damn_ well.”

“Aye,” He chuckled darkly. “That you did. Swing it by me on an email and I get it leaked tonight so all of Britain can see what a fucking well job you did.”

Clara leaned back into her couch comfortably and popped her feet onto the table. “What’s your email then? Shaft69@hotmail.com?”

“More donotfuckingsearchmeGCHQ@nothingsuss.com”

“Yes!” Clara puffed in a haughty accent. “Definitely nothing illegal happening there!”

“Just fucking cupcakes and anarchist cookbooks.”

She let out a small laugh, then settled for a moment, drawing in a breath. “So…”

“So.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Aye.”

“You’re going to bring this all together.”

“That I am.”

“But if… I mean, if there’s a chance that they – ”

“Are you worrying about me?”

“A little.”

“Don’t.”

“But it’s not as if you and them are on any amicable terms right now.”

“Amicability don’t mean jack fucking twat in this job, so it’s going to be no harder than fucking usual. But if there’s one thing I’ve chucked fucking cuts of my own soul onto the fucking pyre over countless fucking years for – it’s that I’m good at my fucking job.”

“I know you are.”

“Then believe I can do it.”

“I do.”

There was a heavy silence as Clara listened to the sound of him breathing over the line, when the thought that this could be the natural end of their conversation tonight made a part inside her chest ache unbidden. She missed him. She wanted him here. Lying across her on her couch, his legs awkwardly dangling off the end, his short curls open for her fingers to run through thoughtlessly, the vibration of his laugh running up her thighs and into her chest. She…

“Come over tomorrow night.” Clara ordered softly.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Will be weird seeing you tomorrow.”

“No more than it was this afternoon?”

“Ha… true.” She began playing with the corner of her throw pillow between the tips of her fingers.

“You should get some sleep. Big fucking day tomorrow.”

“You should sleep.”

“I don’t sleep, I fucking wallow in a bath of fucking red bull.”

“You did last night.”

“Nah, fucking skipped out when you nodded off and made a makeshift bath with that horrible fucking ginseng root tea you got hidden in the back of your cupboard.”

“I’ll make sure to keep my larder well stocked with red bull in the future then.”

“If you’d be so kind.”

“So… sleep.”

“Sleep. I’ve got my dark arts to perform tonight, but tomorrow the sun will shine just a little fucking brighter.”

“I shall remember to bring my sunglasses. Well…night then I guess.”

“Night. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“I’ll hold you to that, mister.”

“Fucking do.”

“Good. Night.”

“Sweet dreams Clara Oswald.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help her smile when she finally took the burner phone from her ear and hung up, leaving her alone on the couch in her silent living room, when the rush of her actions swamped back onto her.

New day tomorrow.

Because of her.

Clara let out a grin.

She couldn’t wait to tell her students.

 

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_“Right, all of you out.” Malcolm finished with a wave of his hand to the constrained occupants of the car._

_“You can’t give us a lift to the station?” Nicola attempted._

_“No one give you fucking double-0 status - that would kind of fuck over the whole idea of keeping a low fucking profile if we’re all fucking carpooling together, wouldn’t it?”_

_“Fine.” Nicola huffed, as the three began to make their way to exit the car._

_“Except Ollie.” Malcolm cut in. “You’re driving me back to Downing St.”_

_“I am?” The human pimple piped up._

_“Don’t want to fuck up Sam’s car anymore on the way back.”_

_“What?” Glenn protested. “He’s taller than you, he won’t be a better driver.”_

_“Fucking heightist, are we?” Malcolm shot back. “My shoddy fucking driving has nothing to do with my regal fucking stature, and everything to do with the fact I have a megaton of more important shit to think about in my brain than to fill it with fucking drive-shafts and flappy paddles. Ollie, on the other hand…”_

_“All right, all right, I’ll drive you back.” He complied._

_“Thank you. Rest of you, fare thee fucking well.” Malcolm turned back finally to Clara, and unceremoniously returned her helmet back to her, hoping the others wouldn’t notice. “Good luck.” He said stiffly._

_“Thanks.” She replied, gave a small smile, then left before he could make a fucking fool of himself anymore, the slam of her door snapping him back to action._

_With the others eventually leaving with a grumble, Malcolm unravelled himself from the seat belt and stepped out of the car, his stiff limbs rejoicing. Trying not to focus on the close rumble of Clara’s motorcycle, we walked around the front of the car and fitted himself into the front passenger seat, the faint hint of her perfume still present, as Ollie assumed the driver’s position._

_“Right.” He started up the car. “Downing St.”_

_They drove in silence as they exited the grey council estate and down the suburban streets towards to city, until Malcolm judged it enough time to make his move._

_“So… you and teach, eh?” He began carefully._

_“What?” Ollie looked confused._

_“What do you mean, what? I saw the looks.”_

_“What looks?”_

_“The fucking looks you were giving each other.”_

_“Who?”_

_“Teach. Miss fucking DoGood.”_

_“Clara?”_

_“Aye.”_

_Ollie drove in perplexed silence for a moment._

_“She… she gave me a look?”_

_“Don’t play coy.”_

_“I’m not playing coy, I don’t know how to play coy, I’m fucking English.”_

_“You didn’t notice her fucking bug eyes on you?”_

_“…no.”_

_“Well they were fucking on you. It’s a shame though…”_

_“What?”_

_“..that nothing can happen.”_

_“W..why not?” Ollie looked slightly panicked to be pulled out of the fantasy he’d been cast in._

_“That you’re dating the fucking frump over enemy lines, what’s her name fucking—”_

_“Emma.”_

_“Emma, right.”_

_“Well you know we did, we did only break up a couple of weeks ago.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Election season. Not really the best for cross-bench relationships.”_

_“Huh…” Malcolm feigned deep thought._

_“What?” Ollie jumped in quickly, too invested in his proposal._

_“Well, seems now you can screw two birds with one stone.” Malcolm gave a smile. “Or one leak, to be exact.”_

_Ollie flicked his gaze back to the road then to Malcolm when he eventually understood his meaning. “No… you don’t mean… no. No, no way I’m doing that.”_

_“What?”_

_“Frame the fucking recording leak on Emma, I can’t do that.”_

_“You’ve fucking broken up!”_

_“There’s still a matter of fucking… morals, all right?”_

_“She could say it was a fucking accident. Just recording it for minutes or some shit.”_

_“She’d still lose her job!”_

_“That’s her problem.”_

_“She’ll…”_

_“Fine. Whatever, you’ll just fuck over your one chance with Teach then.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_Malcolm stared at Ollie in disbelief. “Hurry the fucking hamster up in that fucking brain wheel of yours, would you? If we don’t frame the leak on someone in the opposition, the blame’s going to fall back on Oswald. All of it. And just the tiniest hint of duplicity on her part and the press will suddenly turn her into the Big fucking Bad. You won’t be able to touch her with a hundred foot fucking pole after that, let alone with your fucking withered prick.”_

_Ollie considered in silence. “There’s got to be another way to – ”_

_“You know of anyone else in the opposition you’ve got personal fucking access to a computer?”_

_“No.”_

_“Exactly. You know, I used to have high fucking hopes for you, thought maybe I could bring you into communications after the election, thought you have the knack.”_

_“I do have the knack.”_

_“Oh, great way of fucking showing it my Sharona.”_

_“I can show it in other ways, it’s just…”_

_“No, no… just forget it.”_

_“I want to be in communications, I do, I really do… but I – ”_

_“Want to? Do you?”_

_“Yes”_

_“Or do you want to be a fucking pansy? Because that’s all I’m fucking seeing now.”_

_“No.”_

_“Do you want to be some fucking Whitehall wall slime for the rest of your life?”_

_“No.”_

_“Do you want to turn into fucking Glenn?”_

_“Fuck no.”_

_“Then who the fuck do you want to be?”_

_“Hard core.”_

_“Ok Hard Core – the fuck are you going to do?”_

_“Give Emma the leak.”_

_“That’s my fucking boy!” Malcolm slapped him on the shoulder as Ollie’s mouth crept into a self-satisfied smile. “Now drive on, we’ve got work to do, me and you!”_


	15. Chapter 15

The bright brass patted along with the sound of rain against the window pane as Malcolm's index finger unconsciously tapped against his thigh lightly to the staccato rhythm of the music, while his other hand traced upwards on the pad of his laptop, which was nestled safely in his lap, his long legs propped up onto the coffee table as he leaned back into his couch in an air of satisfied victory.

A small proud smile perched on the edge of his lips as post after post flew across his small screen, all in discussion about the Secretary of DoSAC's unexpected reveal on national radio just hours before. Some were incensed, countless more were supportive - but all had taken his bait.

His eyes scanned through a new political blog post analysing the Prime Minister's non-existent plan to keep the non-existent policy a secret, when his blackberry let out a small hum of vibration where he had left it cautiously on the other side of his couch.

Malcolm eyed the device suspiciously, as his night had been spent avoiding the barrage of calls from the panicked house on Downing St, but he couldn't just turn it off completely. There was one message he needed to receive.

Leaning over slightly to retrieve the phone, he checked the notifications to see, finally, the confirmation he was waiting for.

Ollie Reeder.

_It's done._

Malcolm's smirk turned into a full blown grin as he switched off his phone, threw it back to the abandoned side of his couch and turned the music up higher until it swelled through him and shut out the sound of the developing storm outside.

He did it.

Malcolm allowed himself a self-satisfied breath and closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself drift off with the running solo as he always did, but something was...

He opened his eyes.

The music was the same. His lounge as it ever was. He had got what he planned for. And he was still sitting there. Alone.

An unexpected tug of something tightened his chest. Was it unease? Unfulfillment? Fucking _nerves_?

Malcolm frowned at his newfound puzzle. Closing his eyes once more he tried to fall back into the music but it was hopeless.

Maybe...

Malcolm turned down his stereo, closed his laptop and relegated it over by his abandoned blackberry, then picked up the small worn Nokia mobile from where it rested carefully on his coffee table in front of him. He played with the smooth plastic relic for a moment in hesitation, debating whether he should call her.

She could be asleep. Or she could think he was fucking desperate. Or both.

But his thumb had already begun to press down on the tacky keypad despite the torrent of objections swirling through his thoughts. He brought the phone to his ear and rested his other hand his head, the pads of his fingers nervously smoothing themselves between his mess of short curls.

"Malc?"

Clara's first ever use of his intimate, familiar nickname in her soft, sweet voice definitely did not cause Malcolm's breath to catch in his throat, no fucking way. He was not some fucking flighty tart with a chronic fucking iron deficiency in some fucking soppy romance drivel.

He realised his hand was still frozen atop his head, and promptly smacked it down beside him.

"Thought you were asleep." Malcolm managed.  
“I am asleep. You have called Clara Oswin’s dream state.” She parried back with a droll voice, which only tweaked a smile on his lips.

“Even better – mind if I invite myself in?”

“I’m sorry, Clara’s already busy with a late-60’s Paul Newman right now. Please try again later.”

“Only if I can have him after you.”

“Deal.”

There was a small silence over the line, as the music and rain drifted back into his perception. He hoped she was smiling.

“So…” She started again.

“Hmm?” Malcolm attempted casualness.

“…was there a reason for the call, or – ”

“– I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No…”

“ …good… ”

“…just sitting in bed, doing work.”

“Me too. Well, not bed. Couch. And the work’s done, now it’s just fucking sitting back with my plastic raincoat, having popcorn and fucking orange juice while I watch everyone eat the shit I fed them, then shit out even more on their own like some sort of majestic fucking dihorreatic opening for the fucking Lion King.”

“So they took the bait?” Malcolm was strangely warmed by the fact she didn’t drop a beat after his crass similes.

“Hook, line, and fucking drunk middle aged fisherman slagging the day off work. Plus your episode of fucking Britain’s Biggest Twats has just been leaked to the press so – ”

“…Ah, so you called me to gloat.” Clara’s voice teased.

“I called you to keep you in the fucking loop.”

“It couldn’t have waited till morning?”

“No, because I’m a considerate fucking gentleman.”

“Look, I’d applaud you but I’m pretty sure this mobile was made before speakerphone was invented.”

“I’ve done an impressive fucking thing here.” Malcolm’s voice pitched upwards unintentionally.

“And I am very, _very_ , impressed.”

“Well… good.” He let the silence between them hang, as his first excuse for the call was now defused, sitting there feeling like a complete tit at his inability to keep their conversation going – but he couldn’t just hang up on her again.

“What’s that?” Clara’s voice broke through his mounting anxiety, which caused him to panic that he had spoken his thoughts out loud in some fucking brain/mouth fuck up.

“What?”

“The music…” She replied like a saving grace.

“Oh – Benny Goodman.” Malcolm’s ears tuned themselves back to the light jazz that filled the room.

“…cool.” Something about the quiet tone of her voice tweaked his amusement.

“You have no fucking clue who he is, do you?”

“Sure I do. He’s that… good…one…”

“He’s a fucking icon of popular jazz. One of, if not the fucking best jazz clarinettists ever, he fucking – hold on…” Malcolm gave up and forced himself up off the comfort of the couch to trudge to the other side of the living room where he delicately lifted the needle off his old record, and then lowered it down again onto the well remembered spot, when the room filled with a pulsating drum intro and accompanying brass hops.

“Oh this one!” Clara exclaimed through the phone piece in triumph. “I know this one!”

“Aye, you and the fucking entirety of humanity.” Malcolm grumbled back. “So much so I think it must be fucking stamped on every bairn’s brain after they ship ‘em out of fucking hospital. This and fucking Kung Fu Fighting.” He padded back to the couch and collapsed back onto its cushions. “No one knows where they heard it or who fucking made it, it’s just _there_.”

“Well, at least now I can one-up the newborns: Benny Goodman. Best clarinet player ever.”

“Well…” Malcolm shifted in his seat, then finally relinquished. “…at least according to me Ma.”

“An impartial judge?”

“Aye, as impartial as fucking Donald Trump at a fucking… well fucking anywhere, really.” He huffed, then leaned further back into the couch, his faint memories rolling over his mind, taking his thoughts hostage. “She used to play his records over and over again…” He let out before he could guard himself. “… ‘specially when she had people over. Got out me Gran’s old glasses, and pretended the whiskey was some fucking fancy cocktail like in the Hollywood films. She thought she was the classiest woman in Glasgow. Which, fuck knows, she probably was. And no small feat for a fucking Marxist single-mum from fucking Stromness.”

“ _Marxist_?” Clara’s voice even sounded like a smile.

“Oh aye.” He replied wistfully. “Used to have fucking tea parties and everything, decorate pamphlets and all that – like a sort of hobby, really.”

“And her love of Hollywood didn’t cause her any moral conundrums?”

“Oh, fuck no. Make her choose between Trotsky and fucking Cary Grant and she’d ice-pick the Russian herself.”

Clara’s laughter lit up his ear. “Well, my mum and her would have gotten along – she adored Cary Grant.”

“What’d he do wrong?”

“Hmm?”

“ _Adored_.” Malcolm kicked his feet up to the coffee table. “Past tense. She move on to late-60s Paul Newman with you?”

There was a sudden silence. “No she ah…” Clara’s voice returned, fainter. “She’s dead.” Malcolm froze. He fucked up. Fucking insensitive prick going on about how fucking great his fucking Ma was while she had to fucking sit there… “She died when I was 18.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. But… don’t be.” Her voice came back stronger. “She was amazing. What time I had with her, I was bloody lucky. Has your mum…”

“No.” Malcolm felt guilty. “Fuck, she’ll outlive me. No doubt fucking visit my grave just to nag my decaying remains to keep up with the fucking clarinet practice.” Clara’s laugh returned unexpectedly. “What?” He prodded in confusion.

“The clarinet?”

“Aye.”

“You played the clarinet?”

“Still do.”

Her laugh increased in volume.

“What?”

“Isn’t that…I’m sorry but isn’t that like the dorkiest of all the instruments.”

“No.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“It’s classic.”

“Sure it is Mr Goodman. Bet it got you all the girls in 70s Glasgow.”

“Well… it certainly didn’t fucking _help_.” Malcolm admitted begrudgingly through her giggles. “But I liked to think it made me one step closer to being David Bowie.”

“Bowie played the clarinet?”

“Fuck—   No. He played the sax. Christ, do you know _anything_ about music?”

“I know every single word to the Spice World album.”

“Right, now you’re just trying to provoke me.” He shot back warily.

“Did you wear make up then?”

“Hmm?”

“In your quest to be Bowie.”

“No.” Malcolm sighed. “I was much more fucking desperate, used a fucking felt-tipped pen as eyeliner and occasionally nicked my sister’s frocks.”

“Yep, I think I’d do just about anything so see pics of that.”

“Oh I’m sure my sis has still got the fucking blackmail material, waiting for her chance. But it was just… I don't know, it was different time. Glasgow was hopeless. School was fucking hopeless. We all just craved something… _magic_ , you know?”

“Yeah… late 90s Blackpool wasn’t exactly the shiniest of places either.”

“What, the fucking bedazzled arsehole of Britain? Surely not!” Malcolm harrumphed, to which Clara gave a small chuckle.

“It was a bit of a ghost town really, or _a lot_ like one. Used to think of it like is was some old woman; too much blush, too much lipstick, tattered dress, always drinking and talking ‘bout the old days – trying to put on a show that no one wanted to see. It just made you feel trapped. The people made you feel trapped. Christ, three girls from my final year got pregnant and dropped out – and that was normal, you know? Just made me determined to get out, get as far away as possible as soon as I could. But, turns out the farthest for me was London.”

Malcolm could sense the disappointment dripping from her words. A driving need to comfort her rose in his chest, but he knew she would just take any attempt by him as hollow praise, so instead he attempted to steer the conversation away.

“You went to the local comp?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Aye. How was yours?”

“Passable. But you got the sense that working there was not the teachers’ first choice. Or fifth. Well, all expect one.”

“Role model?”

“Yeah I guess she was in a way. Helped me cram for the A-Levels, tick all the right boxes, write all the right things, got me into a proper good uni, where I thought I’d made it…”

“But?” Malcolm felt her hesitancy.

“But… I don’t know. Maybe it was just the wrong time for me. My mum had just died, and coming into this new world, I just felt angry. The students made me angry. Neither of my parents went to uni – my mum always wanted to but never got the opportunity – then here I was surrounded by kids where to them all of this amazing and immersive education was just… the _norm_. And I mean, it _should_ be the norm. But I was just…”

“You were jealous.”

“Yes.”

“Felt like an imposter.”

“Oh yeah.”

Malcolm stilled, listening to the faint breath of Clara over the line. “You know… I never went to uni. Started running memos for the newspaper when I was a lad, and just fucking went up from there. When I first got to Whitehall it was… they were all fucking Eton boys. They had scholarships, or good families, cursed in fucking Latin, sang their fucking poncy school songs, quoted fucking Plato in policy… Oscar Wilde, Yeates and fucking Shakespeare just fucking fell out of their mouths effortlessly like some fucking exclusive fucking language – and there I was. The fucking uncouth Scottish groundskeeper.

I hated them. Wanted to be them. Wanted what they had, wanted their words, their knowledge. And it just got me so fucking livid because they weren’t any smarter than me. They had exactly the same capacity as me – except their education. Fuck, what they were taught, the _way_ they were taught, they were fucking…”

“They were nurtured.”

Clara’s simple words struck something long and deeply buried in his chest. “Aye.” He murmured. “I mean, that’s not to say I was fucking left out in the cold - but I fucking lucked out. I had me Ma, and me old editor. But, fuck – without them… How is it acceptable to have a fucking modern education system rely on fucking _luck_ for a kid to get up in the world?”

“It isn’t.” Clara’s frank words managed to check his heated breath a little. “And that’s why we’re changing it.” She added determinedly, causing the gravity and consequence of their actions to rush through him like a heady and disorienting gust.

They were going to change it.

An irrepressible smile took over his lips as he wished for nothing more than the ability to reach into the old mobile, wrench Clara into his living room, and give her the kind of hard, heated kiss that would fucking have her knees buckle out from underneath her – when the sound of his doorbell jolted him back into reality.

Malcolm froze.

“Visitors?” Clara’s voice chimed in curiously, causing him to rush through calculated options of replies quick. It wasn’t any visitor he wanted. But it was one he should have expected. After what he did that night, of course he would fucking come. But he couldn’t worry Clara. She had to stay in the dark.

“Tikka Masala.” Malcolm bluffed.

“He eats!”

“A fact she should know very well.”

“Touché.”

Malcolm tried to scramble up an acceptable excuse to hang up, but he knew the doorbell would ring again, and then again in exponential insistency that would surpass even the most determined deliveryman, so he had to get out. Now.

“But, fuck, I’ll finally let you sleep while I attack this fucking curry.” He stumbled out. “See you tomorrow.”

“Oh. Right.” He thought he caught a pang of disappointment in her surprise. “Of course. Good luck for tomorrow.”

“Ta. Night.” The faint sound of her echoing the farewell ghosted out from the phone as he took it down from his ear, but then the doorbell rang out over the music once more so he promptly hung up and leapt up from the couch.

It was time to tie up the loose end.

Bounding to the door in full gait, he grasped the handle then swung the door open, a rush of cold, wet air hitting him like a shard when a dark figure flashed before him and a sudden hard fist struck his cheek with a horrible weight.

His ear hummed.

The metallic taste of blood stung in his mouth.

Resting a careful palm over his throbbing cheek, Malcolm looked out to face his attacker properly, who now gripped his umbrella and had taken a step back to the edge of the doorway’s awning, the dark rain battering down around him.

“Nice fucking interview, cunt.” Jamie McDonald growled.

Malcolm attempted to stretch his aching jaw and slowly pulled himself up to full height. “I did fucking try to warn Steve about Nicola…” He started slowly.

“Oh don’t give me that fucking _‘aw shucks’_ bullshit Albert fucking Speer! You set that whole thing up! Got more of your fucking fingerprints over it than your own fucking cock! Which, now that I fucking think of it, might be less than fucking usual now that you’ve got Miss Basic fucking Instinct dragging you along by it!”

Malcolm just gave him a bloody smirk. “What, you just jealous, sweet cheeks?”

“Jealous!” His old friend had a conniption. “Yeah, I’m fucking jealous of you fucking losing all sense of fucking reality! Fucking jealous of your determination to fucking lob off your noggin and replace it with your cock so you can be the world’s first proper fucking dick head!”

“Are you here for a fucking reason, or did you just feel like auditioning for fucking Guy Ritchie’s Singin’ in the fucking Rain? Cause if that’s the case I’ll leave you fucking to it.”

“Right so she’s in there.”

“What?”

“She is, isn’t she?” Jamie took a step towards the door, spurring Malcolm to step in his way and edge the door shut behind him, the soft jazz leaking through the small gap he left ajar. “Ye fucking desperate to get back in - Come on, Wicked Witch of the Lanky fucking West!”

“She’s not fucking there.”

Jamie yelled out over his shoulder nonetheless. “Come out from behind your fucking curtain!”

“Oi!” Malcolm pushed him back with a short shove. “She’s not fucking there.”

“Like fuck she isn’t” He pushed back.

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!”

“Right, that’s fucking it.” Malcolm broke, giving Jamie a proper shove back till he stumbled back into the rain. “Why you fucking here?”

“I gave you a day!” Jamie tossed up his arm. “I gave you a fucking day, thinking that would be more than e-fucking-nough for you to wake up from this fucking lucid fucking dream you’re in and get back to normal, but no! You fucking double down! Bury yourself even further into her fucking cunt you’ve devolved into her fucking foetus! You fucked up with that fucking radio play of yours - I can’t keep your fucking secret any more.”

“Oi – one fucking day!” Malcolm jumped on his threat. “You promised me that, can’t just take it away, I’ve got shit fucking scheduled on that!”

“ _Oh really_? What shit? This fucking Mitchell plan?”

“Tom’s going to agree with it tomorrow.”

“ _Is he_?” Jamie laughed bitterly. “Fuck, he going to fashion you a crown out of fucking Steve Flemming’s spine and name you fucking King too? Care to tell me your fucking master plan?” Malcolm stayed silent. Jamie stewed. “No – right, of course not. You don’t fucking trust me.”

“One day.” Malcolm rooted his feet. “One fucking day, then afterwards you can tell anyone you fucking want about Clara. But you won’t. Because after tomorrow, it won’t fucking matter.”

“Why the fuck’s that?”

“Cause we’ll have the policy.”

Jamie froze in his spot, dumfounded, eyes piercing his old friend, then suddenly turned around and marched away down the muddy garden path, before halting himself and spun back round to Malcolm with renewed attack.

“No – fuck – I can’t fucking leave this. You’ll have the policy?”  
“Yes.”

“And the fucking hobbit lass?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Good. Glad we’ve fucking cleared that up: Turns out you fucking _are_ a good liar.”

“What?”

“All those fucking years of me following you about, I thought you were a fucking political savant! But turns out you’re just another fucking self-serving, self-obsessed, shouty fucking puppet!”

“Right, I’m getting fucking close to returning that fucking punch.” Malcolm glared.

“You think you can have both!” Jamie gave up. “How the fucking hell do you think you can have both!”

“I’m doing a fucking Godfather.”

“Yeah but when they can’t refuse your fucking offer, you think you’ll be able to fucking slip off to the fucking love shack? You don’t think people will find it fucking interesting when Little Lenin turns out to be shagging a fucking senior figure in the government? You don’t think people are going to ask a few fucking questions?”

Malcolm bristled. “It won’t be the public’s concern.”

“And fucking good luck telling them that when they're hacking apart your fucking Mitchel plan for fucking insider scheming!”

“Get the fuck off my lawn.” Malcolm snapped.

“You going to admit you’re a fucking idiot?”

“No, because I’m _me_ – and I _am_ going to fucking get both!” He fumed.

“Fuck you’re worse than fucking Flemming, at least he’s not a fucking child!”

That was it.

“Why don’t you fucking go leach off him then?” Malcolm spat. “I’m fucking _done_ with dragging your shaggy fucking arse along, get your own fucking career!”  
Jamie stared him down with an icy glare, then pointed a sharp finger. “Fuck you. Fuck her. And fuck your fucking lawn!” He turned without another word marched down the garden path, into the rain.

“Yeah fuck off to your new master!” Malcolm shouted after him, his blood still hot. “Bet he’ll give you a fucking chocolate croissant now!” He stepped towards Jamie’s silent retreating figure when droplets of cold rain struck his head and he retreated back under the awning.

Jamie wasn’t fucking right.

He couldn’t be.

Breathing heavily, his pulse racing, Malcolm swung round and charged towards his door to head back inside, when he collided into it.

Grasping onto the door handle, he tried to turn it but wouldn’t budge. He locked himself out.

“Fuck!” He slammed his palm against the closed door in frustration, then tried bashing through with his shoulder, but it remained impervious to his attempts.

Turning round to face the rain, he scowled at his last remaining choice then trudged into the downpour, the chilling water quickly seeping through his flimsy white dress shirt, then padded around the muddy grass to the side of his house, the glow of his dry, warm living room illuminating the dark channel.

He knew he could get back in.

Jamie was fucking wrong.

Squeezing between the tall fence and the walls of his home, he headed towards the light to the frame of the window where he pried his finger tips along the edge of the wood and tried to lift it up, the ghost of the bright jazz reverberating through the glass, but his grip slipped from the rain-licked edge, and knocked his fingers against the frame above.

Malcolm hissed in pain.

He was wrong.

He could have both.

Untucking his shirt from his trousers, he used the damp fabric to cover his fingers to try the window again with better grip. “Come on.” He grimaced, trying to pull the window up. “ _Come on you fucker._ ”

The tips of his fingers stung in pain.

Rain intermixed with sweat as it pounded down his hair.

The window wouldn’t budge.

He was right.

“Fuck!”

He punched the hard glass of the window, sending an agonizing pang up his arm, but the glass stood unaffected, though now with a small smudge of his own blood.

“Fuck!” He fell back against the fence, cradling his throbbing right hand with his left, as the rain continued to pour.

Jamie was right.

If he got the education policy through, he couldn’t have Clara. The scandal would kill it. Nothing would change.

His throat began to close up.

_Luck._

He knew what he had to choose. He knew what was right. But for the first time in his life, to find someone like her…

“Fuck you!” A guttural cry came out from his gut as he stared up to the black sky as the raindrops pelted down. “Why can’t I have this?” He croaked, his eyes starting to sting. “Just this _one_ fucking thing!”

No answer.

Never a fucking answer.

Collapsing under the weight of himself, he fell forward and smacked his head against the locked window, letting it take his weight as he hunched over his wounded hand in defeat, soaked through and freezing.

He couldn’t have her.

He didn’t deserve her.

Didn’t deserve anything.

“You ok?” An unexpected voice piped up through the rain.

Malcolm glanced slowly up from his aching state to find the source of the voice, but there was no one in the dark. Pushing himself off the window with his good hand, he tried again, when he saw a head in the light of his neighbouring house’s window, peering out at him.

“Locked out.” Malcolm grumbled.

“Damn.” The head shook itself from side to side. “Shocking night for it.”

He glared at the head.

“Want to come in?” His neighbour continued brightly. “While you wait for the locksmith?”

Malcolm could think of nothing worse than to be stuck with some fucking cheery psychotic, and turned back to his blood-speckled window. “I’m fine.”

There was a silence, which Malcolm wished meant that his neighbour had given up and left him to wallow on his own, but then he heard something knock behind him.

“At least have an umbrella.”

Malcolm turned round to find the head now holding out a long umbrella over the top of the fence in kind offering.

Fuck it.

He placed his uninjured hand around the umbrella, and tried to twist his mouth into something resembling a smile, but he knew it could probably only looked like a cold grimace.

“Thanks.” He murmured, taking the gift from over the fence. To which the head thankfully said nothing in reply, and silently closed his own window, leaving Malcolm alone.

Gripping on to the umbrella, he began to trudge back down the side of his house so he could have the space to open it, when he finally reached his rain soaked front yard and sheltered underneath the wide plastic dome.

He listened to the drops patter above him, a shiver rolling up his spine.

No mobile, no wallet, no change of fucking clothes.

No fucking choice.

Well, one choice.

A car splashed past in the street in front, and his face fell back into his steely mask.

Gripping on to the thin metal of the umbrella, he stepped through the puddles of his garden path, and marched out of his front gate and headed along the side of the road, leaving his house, lights still on, music still playing, his eyes searching for a passing cab.

There was only one place he could go now.


	16. Chapter 16

“Malcolm?”

An earthy pungency choked the void of his subconscious.

No.

He attempted to move his stiff bones, to get away from the invasive smell and back to the happy bliss of nothingness, but consciousness gripped into him like a bloodied tick, until finally he surrendered and wrenched open his heavy eyes.

Coffee.

A porcelain mug, white and steaming, was being held in front of him by a small hand. His eyes followed the trail of the arm, up to the dainty shoulder, then rested on the face of his quiet assistant, her expression turning into a polite smile when he got there.

The memory of the night before hit him like a brick to the head.

He went back to his office.

He twisted his head down his haggard form, clothed in an undershirt, his bare shins jutting out from the wrinkled jacket that was acting as a poor substitute for a blanket. He fell asleep on the couch. Small piles of stale clothes caught his eye, left discarded on the floor. He had a fight with Jamie, got locked out.

He stilled.

He had to give up Clara.

The thought drowned him; black, viscous, pervasive. He wanted to go back to sleep – forget, just for a little bit more – but his assistant’s eyes remained fixed upon him, the offered mug waited expectantly.

There was no escape.

Not for him.

Malcolm let out a heavy sigh and snaked his hand out from under the lumpy throw cushion, carefully took hold of the hot mug, then creaked his body out of its sleep and sat up on the old couch, drawing his jacket up over his trunks in some semblance of retaining dignity in front of his employee.

“Thanks.” He croaked.

Sam smiled down at him, but then seemed to falter, just for a moment. “The Prime Minister’s called a meeting in the cabinet room.”

Malcolm took a sip of the bitter drink.

Jamie would have told Tom. And then no doubt fucking Tweedledump and Tweedlepee would be there, just for the free fucking show. Malcolm Tucker and The Smashed Fucking Dream. He hunched over the steaming mug and glared at the floor. He really should have fucking expected this by now.

The job takes.

Everybody takes.

Takes his life, his soul, his one last chance of fucking something resembling happiness.

He was a puppet for others. A professional fucking sacrificial lamb who thought he could keep his last piece of flesh from being thrown into the fucking fire.

But of course he couldn’t.

Because he was him.

He scowled at the drab brown office, his prison of his own making, when he caught Sam bending down to pick up his once soaked pair of trousers left thrown on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Malcolm froze.

“Just going to take these to the dry cleaners.” Sam replied matter of factly as she bundled his trousers up in her arms and padded over to retrieve his socks.

He felt a hot coal of frustration begin to rise in his throat. “You don’t have to – ”

“It’s fine.” She serenely tucked the socks in with the trousers.

Malcolm gritted his teeth. “No it’s… it’s not part of your job description right so – ”

“I think you’ll find it is.” She gave the smallest of smiles and moved back up to the couch to gather his shirt.

“Well I’m changing it now so don’t – ”

“ – I’m happy to – ”

“For fuck’s sake can you stop!”

It was less than a second. He threw his hand out and wrenched the stale trousers towards him, but she had already let go, causing his arm to misjudge and his trouser-filled fist to fling back hard and upturn the mug nestled in his other hand – drenching him, the couch, and his wrinkled jacket in scalding black coffee.

“Fuck!”

He leapt up from the couch, pulling his boiling wet undershirt away from contact from his skin.

“I’m so sorry.” Sam looked stricken. And, for the first time he’s ever saw her, unsure.

He could have fucking crumpled in guilt.

“Fuck- don’t be. I’m sorry.” He shoved the cursed pair of trousers between his stomach and undershirt, then pressed it down in an attempt to soak up the coffee. “It was my fault, I was being a fucking twat.”

“I’ll get your spare suit.” She muttered quietly, which Malcolm took to mean that his claim of responsibility was in no way believed. He drew in a heavy sigh as she darted out the pantry door and left him, bare legs, trunks and stained undershirt, the coffee cooling as it seeped into his bundled up trousers.

He was a fucking mess.

Of course he didn’t deserve a thing.

As quickly as she left, Sam appeared again, suit bag in hand, and a tea towel in the other. She promptly hung up the suit of the back of the office door, then hurried to the couch and started mopping up the remains of the black liquid from the cushions.

Malcolm felt strangely numb. Didn’t feel the need to move at all, or maybe if he did he would crumple completely – all he could do was just stare at the woman, the kind, smart, wonder of a woman, taking time and effort to clean up his own fucking idiocy.

“Why did you even take this job?” The question was asked before he could even think it.

Sam finished dabbing at the cushions then stood up to meet him, her eyes wide in something that looked like surprise as they studied him in their quiet manner, her hands neatly folding up the used tea towel.

“Because you offered it to me.” She said softly with a half smile.

Malcolm harrumphed and looked down at his stomach, where he gave up on soaking the rest of the liquid out and removed the trousers from under his shirt. Before he could put them down, Sam nicked them from his hand and turned away, leaving his protest hanging in his mouth.

Couldn’t be fucking stopped.

Malcolm raised a hand up to his head and bunched a clump of his hair into a tired fist, then watched as his assistant reached the office door, about to turn the handle and leave him, when she suddenly stilled.

Stilling, she slowly looked over her shoulder back at him, her face kind.

“It was because it's Number 10.” She finally answered, breaking the silence, then turned around fully, her gaze flicking down to her feet self-consciously. “I… I know what I do…it isn’t particularly amazing…” She lifted the soiled trousers in her hand. “…but doing it here – I don’t know – I like to think I make a little difference. I help.”

“You help me.” Malcolm found himself offering, honestly.

“Exactly.” Sam lit up, then trained her sight on him. “Why did you take this job?”

Something quivered inside Malcolm.

“I’m a power-hungry masochist.” He responded automatically, voice monotone.

Sam attempted a smile of acknowledgement that quickly failed, and looked at him with the slightest hint of disappointment, then turned, softly unlatched the door and walked out, promptly closing it behind her so no one in the outside world could catch a glimpse of Malcolm and his coffee soaked pants.

_Why did you take this job?_

Malcolm crashed down into the couch and wrung his hands through his rumpled hair, the look on Sam’s face before she left burned itself into his thoughts. She almost seemed sorry for him.

_Why?_

Why anything?

He had a glimpse of something before. A taste. Of purpose.

But that was just Clara.

She had life, passion, drive, and enough purpose to inspire fucking moss. It was utterly intoxicating and he consumed as much of her as he could.

But now he had to give her up.

_Why did you take this job?_

Fragments of memories stuttered painfully through his mind. His mother’s countless failings, his own youthful beliefs stabbed out of him, time and time again.

Purpose fucking hurt.

He was so free without it.

His fingers began to fall from his hair as he drew his head up and looked blankly at his office, open and empty. A chill ran up his wiry legs and took hold across his damp stomach.

Free.

The hated laugh of a fucking leprechaun breezed through the back of his mind like a torturous ghost.

_There was no point._

He took the job for his own selfish fucking reasons. Nothing more.

His gaze fell upon the spare suit left hanging on the back of the door, waiting for him.

The meeting with the PM. He needed to strategize. He had to put out the fires, brush the whole Clara thing off - maybe with a fucking joke about tits being smaller than Julius’ – something…something crude… hurtful… take the scent off and move the conversation, placate Tom, regain his trust, prove his loyalty, just…get back to fucking normal.

Normal.

What the fuck had normal ever done for him?

Something long forgotten embered deep inside his chest.

What if it wasn’t Clara? What if it was something else, something he’d given up long before, torn out and thrown to the fucking gods – but still, just the tiniest shred remained…

Malcolm’s pulse began to quicken.

Why did he take this job?

Why politics?

Why him?

_Help._

 

He wanted to…

…help.

To do something significant.

To have a…

 

A thrill ran up Malcolm’s spine.

He could do it. Do it now.

His breath became stronger as his eyes flashed back to his waiting suit, then narrowed in sharp focus.

He was going to go to the meeting.

He was going to go to that fucking meeting and stand in front of Tom, Jamie, and the fucking Dihorreatic Duo, and he was going to do something significant for the first time in his testicle-flaying career.

He was going to make Tom agree to the Mitchell Plan.

Not for Clara, not for him, not for getting fucking head or for pleasing fucking Sam.

For the kids.

For the fucking hormonal, bratty, inconsiderate, whiny, self-obsessed, idiotic fucking devil spawn he spent the majority of his life trying to fucking avoid – he was going to help them. For their own fucking sakes.

Malcolm sprang up from the couch, a rush of exhilaration shocking his limbs, strode straight to the door and pulled down his suit. Throwing the pristine jacket to the desk, he punched his legs through the trousers and flung the fresh shirt over his long limbs. Then with an ungainly flick, his clean jacket slipped across his shoulders. It was only when heading back to the door however, hands hurriedly tucking in his shirt into his un-belted waistband, when he realized he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

Fuck it.

With a quick scan of the office, he located his abandoned shoes by the coffee table and lunged for them, feet first, squashing them unprotected into the mud-streaked leather then shuffled half step back to the door until they finally fitted themselves in.

Malcolm swung the door open.

_Why did you take this job?_

He marched out the door and down the hall in fatal trajectory towards the cabinet room.

This was fucking why.

His feet sweat against the abrasive leather of his shoes and he piled through the mingling staff on the stairs, focused solely on his target, but coming to the floor with just a turn of the corner he had it in his sight – the solemn oak door, a young assistant standing diligently by. Malcolm barrelled in, full force.

“Ah Malcolm, good to see you.” His momentum was suddenly nipped by Julius’ sickly voice.

He looked up to see Tom, sitting at the far end of the long cabinet table, his attention focused on the collection of newspapers strewn out before him. The door slammed closed behind Malcolm. He looked up.

“I was worried something had happened to you last night.” Julius continued.

Malcolm took in the surroundings as he stood frozen by the entrance. Jamie lounged two seats away from the PM, his head turned purposely away from Malcolm as he bit the end of a ballpoint pen. The Lard Almighty Julius sat as close as heterosexually possible to Tom’s right, in prime fucking licking position, smiling up at Malcolm like he had just caught his master a fucking dead mouse. And Steve Fleming, the original fucking Child Snatcher, stood (arms crossed so tight round his middle he looked as if he could split his fucking torso) alone in the corner of the room, eyes borrowing into his like an unprotected fucking prick.

Three against one.

He could take ‘em.

“Nah, someone sent me a picture of Margaret Thatcher’s decaying corpse so I had to have a marathon fucking wank session.” Malcolm flicked a jaunty smile and heady towards the table. “Bit fucking dehydrated now though – mind if I grab a drink?” He leaned over to collect a glass and decanter from the middle of the table and began to pour the water. “So. Anything happen while I was gone?”

“Anything?!” Steve snapped from the corner of the room, then quickly twisted down his rage into a quivering smile, his eyes flickering back and forth between him and Tom.

Malcolm shot a look at Jamie. Still turned away.

“Haha.” Steve strained a laugh and stepped closer to the table. “That’s just you trying to do a little joke, wasn’t it? Ha – well not _particularly_ funny. _Especially_ not when we’re so close to being judged by the public.”

No mention of Clara.

Yet.

Malcolm stirred.

“You mean we weren’t planning on fucking postponing the election indefinitely?” Malcolm forced a quip as he tried to gauge the situation. Steve looked as if he were about to explode.

“Stephen.” A soft warning came from Julius as he raised up an open hand. “You are making it worse.” Steve sputtered in his place, his blood rushing to his bulbous head as Julius returned his gaze to Malcolm and continued. “The perennial sticky-wicket Nicola Murray had a bit of a mental stumble last night on national radio, as I’m sure you know.”

The air stopped in Malcolm lungs. He shot to Jamie, still stuck in his rejecting pose.

He didn’t tell them.

Malcolm felt as if his sweaty feet were beginning to float off the ground.

Keep focused.

“Yes of course.” Malcolm leaned comfortably against the table. “Give the girl a fucking spotlight and she’ll fall face first onto her fucking arse. But of course, didn’t I warn you about that yesterday, Steve?”

His counterpart seethed. “I freely admit she is an idiot, but that does not excuse the fact what she did last night was _highly_ suspicious politics. Tom, I think she was planted.”

“Planted?” Malcolm laughed as Steve moved closer in to Tom’s side, the PM looking at him curiously.

“Yes.”

“Nicola already has a fucking ecosystem living in her festering fucking bush, who the fuck would want to plant a fucking seed in that?”

Steve crept to the PM’s ear. “A known member of the Cabal, seen scheming with the very same teacher who started this mess, lying about your policy ideas on radio and then this!” He smacked his hand down on the newspapers lying in front of Tom, as Malcolm spied a picture of Peter Mannion gracing the front. “Something is _very_ rotten in this Danish.”

Steve’s accusing eyes went straight to Malcolm. Tom followed suit, staring at him in question, then Julius comfortably looked too, his eyebrows raised in challenge. Finally, reluctantly, Jamie turned with them, his eyes lost of their usual fire.

This was it.

“Are you…” Tom started cautiously. “Are you part of the Cabal?”

Four pairs of eyes burrowed into him.

“No.”

Tom looked relieved; the others opened their mouths to protest.

“But fuck me arse with fucking sand-paper if I don’t fucking sympathize with them.” Malcolm cut them off, diving head first into the void.

“What?” Tom froze.

“Steve, the rotten fucking pudding face, is actually right about something, as much as the fucking bile in my mouth is fucking choking me by saying fucking so. I conspired with Murray. Made her drop the fucking Mitchell plan idea in the interview, then I leaked that recording of the opposition so they looked weaker than fucking Victoria Beckham in a stiff fucking breeze. I am the fucking rot in this fucking croissant!”

Steve looked thrilled. “I told you so!”

“Yeah we already fucking know that you mouldy fucking cumquat, seeing as how we all have memories longer than Ronald fucking Regan’s.” Malcolm shot back in exhausted frustration.

“Why?” Tom persisted.

“And there we fucking are!” Malcolm flung his finger out to point at the PM. “Listen up class this kid’s got the right fucking idea! _Why?_ Why are we so fucking incompetent as a party? Why do we spend our days doing the _barest_ fucking minimum to keep our fucking jobs, against a fucking opposition whose fucking policy statement reads like fucking Gordon Gekko’s translation of  Mein fucking Kampf! They may well as call it _‘How To Fuck The People In 10 Easy Steps’_ , and still we’re only fucking winning by the edge of Julius’ fucking tiny cock! Why is that? Why are we so fucking _immune_ to action?”

“It is dangerous to take risks, Malcolm,” Julius’ gratingly smooth voice attempted. “when the other side has…”

“What? Fucking fascists?” Malcolm burst out. “At least you know what they fucking stand for – at least they’re fucking doing things!”

“And this _Mitchell Plan_ is your idea of _‘doing things’_?” Julius crooned patronizingly.

“Fucking yes!”

Steve snorted into a cackle. “There are more _important_ things at stake here Malcolm than some new age trollop.”

“Oh aye, fucking build a system of running a nation based on the principle that every citizen has a fucking vote to decide which rules and regulations will best assist them to have the best possible life – build a fucking democracy, have a fucking election in two weeks against a party one fucking shoulder-pad away from being a corporate fucking entity: and education – _education of the voting fucking populace -_ that isn't important. No. Nowhere near as important squabbling fucking ministers who talk behind your back. _That’s_ the fucking issue here.”

“Malcolm,” Tom attempted. “I hear what you’re saying but I can’t just do a 360 on a policy two weeks out from an election.”

“Why not! Fucking pick any other day it’s going to be two weeks out from something! This shouty fucking teacher didn’t become a fucking cultural virus just cause she’s a fucking 10 – people agree with her!” Malcolm darted a cautious eye to Jamie. “That’s why I didn’t fucking publicly massacre her – because chop the head off, the hydra’s still there, the people will still want their proper fucking policy! And you fucking know they do – why the fuck else have our poll numbers gone down the fucking toilet?”

Tom flicked his eyes down to the papers again, rousing Malcolm’s suspicion. He re-adjusted his stance.

“The opposition – people are fucking laughing at them. They’re out in the public square, rubbing their own shit in their faces for the public’s fucking enjoyment but you…” Malcolm stepped in closer to the table, as the PM met his eye. “…you’re on the side with the fucking antibacterial hand wipes.”

“Don’t listen to – ” Steve broke out.

“Shut the fuck up Monopoly man – I’m trying to get Tom re-elected!” Malcolm barked, then focused back on his target with a trained voice. “You can agree with the teacher, and you will look fucking strong doing it. We can call a photo-op today, she will bow, scrape, kiss your ass and fondle your fucking balls in order to get the Mitchell Plan passed. And then a picture of that, will be up against _that_.” He pointed dramatically to the front cover of the morning paper, a shammed Peter Mannion being hurried into his car, the headline _‘Leak Vindaloo’_ condemning him above.

Tom fidgeted slightly, looking back down at the front pages, then returned back to Malcolm, his face serious. “She won’t embarrass me? She’ll do exactly as we ask?”

Malcolm fluttered with excitement. “She’ll bring her own fucking lube.”

“Ok…” Tom tried. “Ok then.”

“No sir – ” Julius looked stricken.

“Do you have any better ideas how to win?” Tom struck back.

“No sir but Malcolm-”

“He betrayed me. I know. But that doesn’t mean the bastard’s wrong.” Tom pushed out his chair and stood up. “Steve, call the press and organize a photo-call this afternoon at whatever damp bloody school that teacher works at.”

Steve fumed, but managed to hold his tongue as the others stood up from the table as well, Tom moving over to Jamie to say something, when Steve marched straight towards Malcolm with a psychotic smile now affixed to his red face.

“Malcolm, I will admit that was a tremendously remarkable thing you managed to pull off there,” Steve whispered through gritted teeth, his hot breath hitting Malcolm’s cheek spurts of acid. “but I hope realise this now means your life as you know it will become an absolute _fucking_ hellscape as long as I’m around.”

Malcolm just looked down at him coldly. “So, not much change then.”

Steve spasmed then marched out, leading Julius and Tom moving away from Jamie together, the PM regarding Malcolm quietly, then walking straight past him and out the door without another word.

Now he was left with Jamie. Again.

Malcolm finally let himself release the breath he had been holding ever since he stepped into the room.

His hands began to tremble at his sides as the enormity of the situation began to creep up on him.

He felt…light, almost.

His eyes again fell on his old friend, still standing on the other end of the large table, still in silence.

“Thank you.” Malcolm said from the bottom of his fossilized heart. “You didn’t tell them about Clara, you - ”

“Two weeks after the election, you will send Tom a notice of your retirement from politics.”

The ground vanished from underneath Malcolm’s feet.

Oh.

Of course.

Jamie remained fixed on him, his face expressionless. “What you do after that, entirely your decision. But you don’t go after us and we won’t go after you.”

Malcolm forced himself to remain standing. “Touch that Mitchell Plan and all bets are fucking off.”

“Agreed.”

They stood there. Two former friends.

Malcolm felt something rise in his throat, a warmth in his eyes.

“This is my legacy, Jamie.” His voice came out with an unexpected quiver, the words echoing through the cavernous room. “I have a fucking legacy.”

The smallest of smiles began to rise on Jamie’s face, but it was quickly shut down, when he broke contact and moved from his spot from the table, marching out of the room and passing Malcolm without a second look.

That’s that then.

Malcolm bunched his trembling hands into fists by his sides, and looked up at the high ceiling of the old government building.

Did the job to fucking lose it.

A wan smile skidded to his lips.

Fucking kids.


	17. Chapter 17 Part 1

You can’t always get what you want.

That phrase particularly irked Clara Oswald. Some homespun philosophical mantra of utter defeatism. Because people shouldn’t just shrug off a challenge with the effortless comfort of _‘it wasn’t my time’_ – they should persevere. And they should keep bloody persevering until there’s no option left but to win.

The phrase played in Clara’s mind, carrying in its wake the image of a sickeningly ingratiating smile, and the oft replayed and resented memory of some foolish attempt by her dad to bond the family with the newly introduced Linda over a friendly game of Monopoly.

“You’re quite the competitive one, aren’t you?” The woman Clara was later forced to call step-mum preened after Clara unsuccessfully spent a good ten minutes trying to haggle Mayfair off her.

“ ’Spose I am a bit, yeah. Anything wrong with that?”

“Of course not, no.” Linda gave a tight smile and smugly adjusted the little row of red plastic houses atop her precious inch-wide property. “Just am reminded of that Rod Stewart line – _you can’t always get what you want_. Figured you of all people would know that.”

A shot ran through Clara as she felt like Linda had thrown burning salt into the still-exposed wound from her mother’s death. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Clara snapped hotly.

Linda’s expression froze quickly, and gave a furtive look at Clara’s dad sitting next to her, before just as quickly regaining her self-important composure.

“I meant that you’re smart.” She replied smoothly.

Clara just eyed her off with a cold stare. “Well, smart enough to know it was Mick Jagger’s line, _not_ Rod Stewart.”

Linda just smiled.

That bloody, insipid smile.

But she would give anything to see her expression now.

To see Clara right there, in the middle of the grey Coal Hill Secondary School playground, encircled by photographers, clicking away in thunderous waves, amongst the rabble of her overstimulated students, standing right next to the Prime Minister of Great Britain as he announced his party’s introduction of the Mitchell Plan to parliament.

An insignificant English teacher. Changing national education policy. Against all the bloody odds.

Linda would bloody gawp.

Clara beamed at the cameras.

Her eyes started to move on their own accord, through the mess of journalists, teachers, and government representatives, on the hunt for a glimpse of that shock of short greying curls she’d been wanting to attack ever since the Principal interrupted her mid-class and told her the news. But it appeared he was determined to tease her with his absence. Childish git.

“Shake hands!” A distant unidentified voice broke into her reverie, stalling her thoughts of all the things she was going to do to Malcolm when she caught him, and brought her back to the bustling reality.

She glanced to her side to find the Prime Minister politely smiling at her, his open palm waiting obligingly, to which Clara took up in her own.

Another roll of clicking shutters. Flurries of shouts to look this way and that. A wide palm on the side of Clara’s arm, as the PM locked her gaze with his and leaned into her ear with a knowing smile.

“I will admit, Miss Oswald, you make quite the politician.” He said quietly over the cacophony of press, then pulled back. “Congratulations on your victory.” He said tightly then moved to let go of her hand. But Clara didn’t let up.

“Congratulations to you too, sir.” She countered, just low enough so only the two of them could hear. “This is a good thing you’ve done today. Now don’t screw it up.”

The PM maintained his veneer of the kindly statesman for the cameras. “And I suppose you’ll be keeping tabs on me, making sure I don’t.”

Clara gave a genuine smile. “Wouldn’t be a good teacher if I didn’t, now would I?”

She dropped his hand before he could reply, and turned away from him to check over her students, now scattered next to her, chatting excitedly.

"Principal Shaw!” The huddle of press called out, their target finally shifting.

“Go Shawty, it’s ya birthday!” A smaller, higher-pitched voice echoed, to which Clara immediately identified as belonging to one Courtney Woods.

She quickly stole the opportunity to escape from the spotlight and stepped through the crowd of students, her eyes scanning their faces, when she finally landed upon the culprit.

Courtney instantly translated her teacher’s look.

“I was just celebrating miss!” The bundle of insubordination simply cracked a smile. “ _Yay education!_ and all that.”

Clara’s mouth opened in well-practiced automation to counter Courtney’s obvious lie, but she stopped herself before the first word, and let her lips lift sightly into the smallest of smiles.

This was Courtney’s day now.

“Alright.” Clara gave her student an official nod. “Carry on then.”

For the first time she’d ever seen, Courtney looked stunned. But the revelation was swiftly overtaken with a look of pure glee, to which Clara quickly turned away from before she could regret her decision, and looked back over the busy playground, the Principle now in the midst of the huddle, chatting heartily with the Prime Minister – when she finally caught a glimpse of the lean figure she’d been hunting for all afternoon.

An unabashed smile lit up her face, when she realised she probably shouldn’t be so smittingly obvious with this much national press just a few feet away, so she tempered her expression into neutral and began to circumnavigate the crowd, her eyes fixed on the tall man now hunched over the flimsy tea and coffee station, all his focus upon a small polistyrine cup.

“Come here often?” Clara crept up to him and watched with fondness as Malcolm immediately darted his eyes to her.

She tried her best to maintain her indifference as he straightened his beautiful form, but then he looked down at her with an unreadable face.

“Not if I can help it.” He replied simply, his voice low, his body still.

Clara studied him curiously, not expecting Malcolm to be subject to a feeling she could only deduce was shyness. “Must have been something pretty important then,” she took a step closer to him “to warrant your gracing us with your presence.”

She was only a few feet away from him now, as close as she could publically allow, the thrum of press slowly melting away from her periphery as she looked up at him again, his eyes locking with hers, disarming her effortlessly.

“Very important.” He admitted, to which Clara permitted herself a small smile and then turned away to the table before she found herself pulled in too far with him.

Not here.

She needed to be alone with him.

She needed a plan.

“So, Mr Tucker…” She began her prim performance as she felt him watching her closely, looking over the array of instant coffee and tea bags arranged upon the plastic table top, her interest in the refreshments providing a motivation for her to take another step closer to him. “Which would you recommend, the tea or the coffee?”

“I’d recommend a cup of Peter Mannion’s tears – cause even those won’t be as bitter as this crap.” His quiet joke took Clara by surprise, considering his recent behavoir, causing her to look up at his with a proud smile, to which his stern face slowly relented under.

“Tea it is.” She leaned into Malcolm with the excuse of collecting a cup, her body now only inches away, when she was struck with a curious scent. “Although I know what you chose.” She murmered privately as she pulled back across him.

“What?”

A smile danced upon Clara’s face, as she slyly glanced left and right to make sure no-one was close. “Coffee. You reek of it.”

Malcolm’s bushy eyebrows shot up before quickly being taken back under control. “Oh that, that’s my very manly musk.”

“Right, of course. And I haven’t smelt it before because…”

“…didn’t want to intimidate you with my pharamones.”

Clara looked at him blankly. “Do I look like a girl who gets intimidated?”

Malcolm’s face returned to that frustratingly unreadably expression, his brow low. “No. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

But Clara was not one to back down, and locked him with a self-satisfied smirk as a theory came to her. “You spilled coffee on yourself, didn’t you?”

“With gusto.”

She bit the corner of her lip and pretended to scan through the selection of teas. “Didn’t burn anything?”

“Besides my pride-”

“-no other extremities? I’m happy to do a little check-up, if we can find a room to-”

“Clara! Hey!”

She froze in her position next to Malcolm, their precious bubble of privacy rudely burst by the obnoxious greeting of a lanky government aide. She could feel Malcolm distancing himself from her as she looked up to see the interruption grinned at her from the other end of the table.

“Hey!” She collected her thoughts and forced a friendly smile. “Ollie, right?”

“That’s me!” He replied with his usual unfounded confidence. “Just wanted to say, you know, congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She said simply, casting the trio into an awkward silence as she watched Ollie twisting in cluelessness as to what to say next – when a sudden realisation forced her to hold down a laugh.

He was trying to flirt with her.

“So…” Ollie resumed digging his own grave. “You want a cup of tea? Here, I’ll make one for you.” He sprung towards the stack of cups and grabbed two.

“You really don’t have to.”

“No trouble at all!” He enthusiastically popped the teabags into the white cups and filled them from the urn when she dared a look back at Malcolm, his silence amidst this train-wreck completely inscrutable to her. But his face was blank. Only staring at Ollie, with no humour or even anger to be gleaned.

“Sugar?” Ollie’s inquiry snapped Clara back, to see him keenly at the ready, sugar packet in hand.

“Oh, no thanks. Just milk.”

She definitely needed to get away, get somewhere where she and Malcolm could talk, rather than keeping up this maddingly distant game of charades. But how could she get out with the annoying twerp practically clinging to her?

“Great!” Ollie carried on, tipping the milk into her cup. “That’s ah, how I like mine too.”

Clara attempted a smile of acknowledgment, but her mind was ticking away, trying to think of a strategim when Ollie picked up her cup of tea and immediately the solution came to her.

“Here you go…” Ollie started, quickly offering Clara with her over-milked cup of tea, to which she gladly took advantage of his speed of presentation and purposely misjudged the target for her hand, knocking the bottom of the cup, which caused it to flick towards her, the forward momentum of the hot liquid instantly freed and headed straight for her blouse.

Perfect.

“Damn.” She pretended to be disheartened as she lifted the hot soaked corner of her top away from her skin.

Ollie looked stricken. “Shit I am so sorry.”

Clara desperately tried not to smile. “It’s fine – all my fault.”

He darted to the table, hunting for napkins. “Here, let me – ”

“No don’t worry, I’ve done this to myself hundreds of times – the caretaker has just the right towels for this.” She planted to seed, hoping Malcolm would catch on.

“Great I’ll go – ”

“It’s just around that corner, I’ll go.” She tried not to sound panicked. “You um, you stay here and I’ll be back in a mo. For that cup of tea.”

Ollie looked sufficiently encouraged. “Sure! Sure. I’ll be here.”

Clara gave a parting nod, then turned to her quiet shadow.

“Mr Tucker.” She gave an stiff goodbye, but then caught his eyes quickly as she passed, in an attempt to telegraph her plan.

She sauntered away as casually as she could, hoping he was watching her leave, walking away from the shambolic press, who had now gotten hold of Nicola Murray - looking every bit the proud politician - and turned the corner.

The quiet corridor between the brick school buildings seemed a whole other world to the one she just stepped away from, and now free from prying eyes, she almost skipped down the path, tea cooling on her shirt, as she headed towards the inconspicuous door tucked out the way on the other side of the concrete stretch.

Arriving at the door, she gave a final, careful look around her to check Ollie hadn’t caught the hint she aimed at Malcolm, but there was no-one around, so she quietly turned the handle and peeked inside.

“Ratif?” She asked cautiously into the dark of the caretaker’s shed.

No answer.

Clara smiled and headed inside, closing the door behind her but making sure not to lock it.

The first step of her plan succeeding, she decided her clean herself up and headed towards the well-known shelf to collect the towel. She hadn’t completely lied to Ollie about this happening before. Wetting the towel under the tap, she looked at the door, waiting expectedly for Malcolm to arrive, listening out for his heavy, uneven footsteps.

But she could hear nothing but the torrent of water against the sink.

Clara frowned and began to wipe down the corner of her blouse with determination.

Of course he would come.

There was no way he would misinterpret her look.

But what if there was something else? Some reason for his strange behaviour. What if –

She heard the sound of a footstep outside. Clara placed her towel down. The rattle of the cheap door handle as it slowly turned. The creak of the wooden door, opening slowly, when she finally saw Malcolm in the doorway.

Clara didn’t waste any more time on thoughts and doubts. She leapt through the distance between them, flung her hands up to his face, and brought him down into a rejoicing kiss.

The suddenness of her action must have taken him by surprise as he didn’t immediately respond, freezing slightly in her embrace, but then after a moment he opened his mouth to her, his hands wound themselves around her form, and he hugged her closer as he began to kiss her desperately.

Clara was almost unbalanced with the change in passion, and she pushed back against him, driving him up to the door which slammed with a firm click, when she gave a him long, slow kiss, then pulled back from his lips, both panting, their eyes filling the other’s view.

“We did it.” She said softly, the reality of their accomplishments finally hitting her now he was in her arms. “We actually, properly…did it.”

Malcolm’s eyes darted across her face, studying her features. “Aye.” He agreed, his voice husky. “We fucking did.”

She couldn’t help but let out a squeal as she leapt up into a tight hug, eyes closed shut, smile beaming as his arms held her off ground and close to his chest, so she could feel the thump of his heart reverberate through her.

All those kids.

All those lives muted and discouraged.

All that wasted potential.

All that pain.

No more.

She could feel her eyes warm with the swell of tears, when she loosened her grip on Malcolm, letting him lower her from the hug as she brought one hand to cradle the side of his face, and other to flick away a tear from her cheek.

“So,” She looked up with him with a wet grin. “What next?”

Malcolm’s brow stretched upwards. “Next?”

“Yeah, we’re on a roll here – why don’t we take on energy policy? Or the NHS? My mate Martha would love me for that.”

Malcolm didn’t even reply, just ducked his head down and took her lips in his before she could speak another word. His kiss was hot, forceful, all consuming, as he slowly walked her backwards through the dark shed, until her thighs hit against a low bench. He swiftly brought his hands to her thighs and lifted her up upon the bench, when his kisses moved away from her lips and down her neck, causing her to take a sharp intake of breath when he definitely remembered where to find her sensitive spot.

“This next.” She let out in a sigh of pleasure. “Definitely this next.”

Malcolm continued his attentions unaffected, returning to her lips when his hands took on separate missions, one moving up her damp blouse to her breast, slowly rolling it in his clever palm, while the other smoothed over her tights, higher and higher until it slipped under her pencil skirt, the tips of his fingers almost brushing –

“Wait.” Clara panted, pulling herself away from his lips and let out a frustrated groan at the unwanted appearance of her logical brain. “Wait.”

Malcolm didn’t listen, darting out to capture her exposed neck instead, but Clara knew they shouldn’t risk it.

“Just, hold your horses there mister.” She guided his face away from her breast to face her, eyes locked. “While I want nothing more to carry on this… conversation – I need to stop while I still have some sense left. The caretaker could come back any minute.”

Malcolm just frowned, his hair messy, face still encircled by her small hands. “You’re the one who told me to meet you here.”

“Yeah, to talk.”

“Just talk?”

“Ok and kiss, yes. But then I came to the swift and resolute decision, that I’m going to need more.” She began to run the tips of his fingers along the edge of his hairline, into his curls. “ _Much_ more.”

Malcolm just looked at her in silence, the working of his mind behind those deep eyes an utter mystery.

“So even though I’m into the thrill of getting caught.” Clara stepped in. “I don’t think now’s the time. Meet me at my place?”

“Now?”

“I’ll slip out now before the press can catch me, and you follow soon after. Sound good?”

He kissed her instead of answering and she couldn’t help but giggle against his lips.

“You going to try and use words now?”

“I fucking hate words.” He grumbled and kissed her again. “Fucking done with them.” And again. “This is better.” And again.

Clara finally drew herself away and pushed Malcolm back against his sharp shoulders.

“One hour.” She ordered. “I’ll see you there.”

Without waiting for a response she popped herself off the bench and adjusted her loosened blouse, then promptly stepped away from Malcolm and headed to the door, her fingers running through her hair to manage the mess.

“And what if I don’t turn up?" Malcolm’s gravelly voice unexpectedly cut through silence as she reached the handle of the door.

Clara stilled, and looked back at him with puzzlement, to find him where she left him, shoulders down, but the smallest of smiles on his face. A smile that almost seemed sad.

She bolstered herself and raised a commanding eyebrow. “Oh, I know you will.” She said confidently, then headed out the door, closing it behind her before the outside would could catch a glimpse of who she was talking too.

Giving a look round the passageway between the buildings, she made sure there were no lurking press, then heading down the back way to the front gate of the school, her mind puzzling over Malcolm’s final look.

Maybe he was just acting like that to provoke her. Or maybe he was having second thoughts. It wasn’t as if they’d known each other for long, it would be perfectly reasonable if he was having second thoughts.

She frowned to herself, the gate coming into view as she turned a corner.

The way he kissed her though, that was not the kiss of someone who wanted out.

Though it wasn’t a kiss of someone who knew they had plenty more to come.

Clara stilled by the entrance to the school, the sudden unnerving thought crashing into her, making her question whether she should turn back to the caretaker’s shed, when she heard the quick footsteps of someone approach her.

“Are you off?” She almost groaned in frustration as the last person she wanted to hear right now approached her at the gate.

Ollie.

“Yeah.” She attempted some form of civility. “My top’s a mess, don’t want to be in front of the camera with this.”

“Again, I’m so sorry.”

“Wasn’t your fault.” She reiterated, then stepped out onto the pavement and began to head off.

“You know – ” Ollie’s voice caught her, to which she grudgingly turned around and saw him leaning with an elbow on the brick fence, in what she presumed was some attempt by him to be suave. “Spillage is a surprisingly common thing around politicians.”

Clara raised an unimpressed brow. “Really?”

“Yeah, fucking incompetent babies sometimes.” Ollie continued obliviously. “But someone has to keep them in line. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can save you the trip home – just one word from me, and the press will – ”

Ollie’s face suddenly dropped in fear. Clara knew that look well now, and her heart swelled with joy as she knew as she turned around she’d see that craggy Scottish face just ready for a bullocking…

But Malcolm wasn’t there. Instead, she saw a woman - Emma, the one she got along with at the opposition meeting, heading straight for them, her expression furious.

“Emm – ” She heard Ollie attempt to stop her

“Trying to stick his prick into you too, is he?” The blonde political aide didn't give him a chance. “I should have fucking known.”

Clara quickly pieced the two together. She was a girlfriend. A girlfriend who saw them... “Wait, Emma – I’m not – ”

“Not a fucking rat?” Emma cut in. “Could of fucking fooled me!”

“This isn’t what it looks like, I’m not interested in him at all.” Clara tried to settle the misunderstanding, but Emma just let out a scornful laugh.

“Oh Ollie, and you were putting your best moves on her, weren’t you?”

“What are you doing here Emma?” Ollie gritted through his teeth.

“Me? I came to give you back your USB.” Emma held up a small black memory stick with a threatening look.

“That’s not mine.” Ollie shrugged off quickly.

“Yes it is.” Emma bit back.

“Look on the side its got fucking Department of Foreign Affairs emblazoned across it in fucking fifty foot letters.” He countered. “Or has working for the opposition fucking sapped the last drop of your fucking mind juice you don't remember working there?”

But Emma was not dissuaded. “Oh you think you’ve got all the fucking _mind juice_ , don’t you? You think you’re so fucking smart using my old USB stick against me. Well you can go fuck yourself with this right up your loose fucking arsehole.” She turned to Clara, locking her gaze. “And so can you.”

Clara froze. “Wait – what did I do?”

“You know what you did.”

“No, actually, I _really_ don’t.”

Emma just looked at her, stunned.

“You're not fucking smart at all, are you? How did you think that little recording of yours was going to get to the press? You think Mr Fucker Tucker was going to hand it straight to the fucking Guardian via fucking singing telegram, no questions asked? They _use_ people. They use Ollie and they use me. And now I’m never going to get a job in politics again.”

A wave of guilt overflowed within Clara. “I’m so sorry…” She attempted.

“Fuck you.” Emma shut her down. “Don’t give me that sad fucking big eyed apology face. You don’t know how fucking hard it was to get to my position, you have no fucking concept of my world – so you don’t even know what you’re sorry for. You could have had a brain, you could’ve asked how your new fucking besties were going to pull it all off – but you didn’t. So fuck you." She turned her fury back to Ollie and raised her arm threateningly. "Now take your precious fucking memory stick.”

She threw the small plastic object at Ollie, who just flinched awkwardly, his limbs jerking as it hit him square on the forehead, then she walked away without another word, leaving them in her wake.


	18. Chapter 17 Part 2

There must have been another way.

Clara pushed the edge of the smooth plastic hard against the inside of her fingers with her thumb, then flicked the small USB around in her grip in agitation as she paced again to her couch and sat down with determination. She had picked up the cursed thumb drive from the ground outside the school gate after it had bounced off Ollie’s thick head and he childishly refused to have anything to do with it. It was the final straw for Clara, who gave the parasitic aide one last blood-chillingly stern look then rushed home – somewhere she was free. Somewhere she could think.

She unfurled her fingers to reveal the black plastic rectangle from the Department of Foreign Affairs lying innocently in her palm.

Something so small and banal. Destroying that woman’s career.

Her hand clasped shut around the stick.

Wrong.

 _She_ destroyed that woman’s career.

Clara sprung up from her seat again, tossed the stick to her coffee table and crossed the room in a vain attempt to escape from her thoughts.

She did it. She made the tape. The USB was just a bad bloody penny come home to its inconsiderate master.

There had to have been another way.

Some other avenue they could have taken without resorting to scape goating.

If only she’d asked.

_Fuck you._

The choked voice of Emma returned to her thoughts, focused on the slightest quiver in her threat, a glimpse under her anger to the deep hurt below.

Another round of guilt punched Clara in the stomach, prompting her to turn again to head to the other side of the room when she was stopped by the sound of three strong knocks at her door.

Malcolm.

He’d have answers.

She strode resolutely through her lounge room and down the dark hallway to her door and swung it open.

“I need to ask you a question.”

Malcolm looked mildly startled at Clara’s prompt jump in usual conversation and began to open his mouth in greeting but she had already turned away and was heading back to her mess of thoughts in the lounge room, when she heard the solid click of the door shut behind her.

“Why Emma?” She wheeled round now she knew their conversation was private and saw that Malcolm had already emerged into the light of her room.

“What?” He had that face on again. That maddening, inscrutable face…

“ _Emma_ – The aide, the one that works for Peter Mannion – or, you know, _worked_ for him, now she bloody lost her job cause we framed that recording leak on her.”

“Who told you?” Malcolm’s face went cold.

“Emma! She came round after I left the shed and threw the bloody USB stick a… _why are you holding your shoe?_ ” Her tone switched to utter confusion when looking at the thumb drive her gaze flicked inadvertently down Malcolm’s form, and she found him, wholly unexpectedly, holding a single black leather shoe against his thigh.

“Oh, this.” He snapped out of his grim stare and casually lifted said shoe up between them. “I ah, I had to leg it over your back fence.”

But Clara barely registered his words, instead focusing downwards on his bare foot, his pale skin against the dark carpet of her floor and…

“Oh my god you’re bleeding.” She froze at the sight of vivid red against his white heel.

“Right.” Malcolm almost seemed surprised and looked down at his foot with her. “That too.”

Clara snapped into damage control. “You, sit down.” She ordered, to which he just raised his bushy brow.

“It’s fine, it’s just a wee fucki – ”

“ _Sit._ ”

He sat.

Clara darted out the door and into her bathroom, crouching on the cold tile floor to raid the sink cupboard when Malcolm’s excuse finally had the chance to click into her mind.

“Why the hell where you jumping over the fence?” She called out as she bundled up packets of plasters and antiseptic into her hands.

“ _There’s a paparazzo out front_.” Malcolm’s deep voice responded.

“What?” Clara stood up from the bathroom floor, kicked shut the cupboard then made her way back to the lounge room and offloaded her makeshift first aid kit onto the coffee table.

“Dumped on the side of the road like a fucking mass of leaches decided to pop on a fucking puffy jacket and pretend to be fucking human.” He nodded to the window as he sat sprawled out on Clara’s small couch, his bare bloody foot dangling in the air as his leg was crossed atop his other knee in an attempt to save her carpet from stains. She immediately headed to the noted window and tired to peer out into the fluorescent-lit street below.

“Don’t fucking – Don’t look out!” Malcolm protested from the couch, causing Clara to step back slightly from the glass.

“Why not?”

“Makes you look fucking suspicious.”

“I am suspicious! Suspicious of why on earth someone’s being paid actual money to stalk me legally – which, believe it or not: not an everyday occurrence for me.” She kneeled down by the coffee table and began to pull out a square of gauze from its plastic package when a sobering though hit her. “You don’t think they know about us?” She asked softly, eyes straight at Malcolm.

“No.” He jumped in quickly. “If they knew there’d be a fucking pap on me too. And considering I haven’t already been fucking bombarded with endless fucking videos of me falling off a fence accompanied by fucking _‘Mad World’_ , I think we’re safe.”

Clara snapped the lid off the brown antiseptic bottle and began to squirt the dark liquid onto the sterile patch. “How did you even manage to cut yourself?” She berated him softly.

“Thought the fucking glass recycling bin the safest place to land.” Malcolm quipped automatically, when Clara shot him a look. “It’s just a popped blister.” He finally relented. “Wasn’t wearing any socks today.”

Clara stilled in her position on the floor and lowered her brow at the man opposite her, who began to look a little disconcerted under silent gaze, until she finally broke it, thrusting out the stained gauze with a tired sigh.

“Take this.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Malcolm collected the square from Clara and tentatively pressed it against his open wound with a hiss of pain as she rose up from the floor and made her way to her bedroom.

“God you’re hopeless.” She grumbled as she padded down the dark hallway.

“ _Heard that!_ ” Malcolm’s voice caught up with her as she entered her room and pulled at the old handle of her chest of draws with a squeak.

“Good!” She cut back, gripping her hand around the colourful woollen ball she had been seeking and slammed the drawer shut.

Clara marched back into the lounge room silently, Malcolm’s gaze fixed on her as the rounded the coffee table, collected a box of plasters then sat herself down on the other side of the couch and unceremoniously stole the now bloodied gauze out of Malcolm’s hand and began cleaning the deceptively shallow wound herself.

The silence weighed heavy between them, just the draw of Malcolm’s long breathes as Clara brought her other hand down softly onto his icy foot and leaned closer to him. She could feel his gaze upon her like a vice as she decided she was satisfied with her work and swapped out the gauze for one of the large plasters. Spreading the tacky plastic over his broken skin, she made sure not to linger with her touch, drawing her hands away from him much quicker than she would normally have wanted.

“You’re pissed at me.” He stated plainly, still watching as she picked up the woollen bundle from beside her.

“No.” She denied quickly, unfurling the colourfully stripped socks her nan had knitted her years ago, their ridiculous size a testament to how proudly hopeless her nan was at being old, then slipped one of the socks up Malcolm’s bare foot and over his now treated ankle. “Yes. A little bit.” She recalibrated, pulling her hands away from him and finally looking him in the eye. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to frame her?”

“Because you would have stopped me.” Malcolm answered simply.

“Would I?”

“Would you?”

The question bit her.

She grabbed the other sock and handed it off to Malcolm, then stood up from the couch and folded her arms across herself, heading back to the window while her mind was pushed back into her muddled thoughts.

“You know…” Malcolm broke through, kicking off his other shoe to put on the matching giant sock. “…It’s not as if Emma was fucking Bambi’s slightly more conservative mother – ”

“I know!” Clara finally snapped free and swerved to face him. “ _I know_ she’s just another opposition goon, I know she was only nice to me to get me in bed with them –”

“Then why the fuck are you so hung up about this?”

“Because she _was_ nice! Because she was funny, because she’s human, because she has a life. And I got her sacked. Her life’s work, her…I’ve been racking my brains for hours now, trying to figure out a way were could have sent that tape to the press without anyone getting hurt – encrypted email, anonymous post, bloody dressing up in a trench coat and handing it over in a car park at night – but all the whole time, all I hear is your voice in my brain saying: _You need a victim. You need a victim or the blame will swing back to you._ ”

“Imaginary me is a sharp fucker.” Malcolm commented darkly.

“Right, so there was no other way?” She looked to him desperately.

“No.”

“You’re sure?” She stepped closer, trying to read his stern face.

“Of course I’m fucking sure, look – I’m really fucking good at my job, ok?” He shot up from the couch in retaliation. “Emma was the _only one_ in the opposition, in the meeting, in the timeframe, and in the personal fucking range of one of our own to fucking chain her to the mountain for the fucking crows to feast on. It would only have fucking worked with her. So, you know, stop feeling fucking guilty about it. I officially fucking absolve you.”

“Don’t tell me when to feel guilty or not.” Clara snapped straight. “We got the Mitchell Plan, yes, that’s brilliant, but don’t deny the way we got it is fucking shit.”

“Of course it’s shit!” Malcolm threw up his arms. “It’s fucking politics! What the fuck else do you think this fucking maelstrom of flagellating cocks is? Politics is nothing but a fucking monolithic turd totem, just fucking speckled with tiny fucking flakes of gold, which you can only ever fucking see when the sun’s at some random fucking zenith. I mean, we might fucking dress it up, write some flowery fucking speeches about it, build a fucking marble shrine around it – but at the end of the day, getting into politics means sinking into that fucking warm, putrid, festering mass of fucking decay and fucking hoping against hope that the glint you saw was gold and not another piece of fucking corn! So, you know, excuse me for not having time for your guilt. I’ve been tunnelling into this turd for years now I’m fucking _encrusted_ in guilt – but you can’t let it get to you otherwise you’ll fucking freeze up into a fucking shit statue and get dragged off to fucking Madame Tussauds’ Museum for Useless Cunts! We got the Mitchell Plan. Against all the odds, we pulled out a fucking rare solid fucking nugget of gold. So that little shit stain you got, that fucking turd tattoo – you’re going to have to live with it, alright, cause that’s just the fucking consequence of doing some fucking good.”

Clara didn’t respond. Instead she let the silence sink in as she slowly sat herself back down onto the couch.

She knew he was right. She knew on the scale of things, just one victim for the sake of education bill was a good result. But something nagged her. Something intrinsic to her very soul. Maybe it was just because she didn’t want to allow herself to slip in to apathetic pragmatism. She knew where that path led. It led to the pain of a man just four feet away from her. A haggard, angry skeleton.

She heard him shift awkwardly in the silence.

“Fine then…” He started, his voice jumping between confidence and uncertainty. “I…I guess that means I should probably fuck off now.”

Clara’s internal dissection was instantly muted. “What?” She looked up at him in honest surprise to see his lanky form struggle to shove his colourful woollen feet into his sober black shoes.

He was leaving.

She shot up from her seat.

“Why?”

“Look, sweetheart, it’s fucking obvious we’re stuck on different sides of the fence here.” He started to Clara’s confusion, as his gaze tried to stay on her but kept flicking away. “And, fucking, knowing my track record with fences, I think it’s safer for both of us to just fucking accept that it’s hopeless trying to jump it.”

Clara looked at him quizzically. “I don’t understand, I _agree_ with you, I’m on the same side.”

“Ok then why did we fucking fight about it?”

“Because I have a right to feel bad.” She countered earnestly, as she took a soft step towards him. “But, besides all that - you don’t have to be frightened away from a little fight. Fighting’s just a normal, healthy thing that couples do.”

“We’re _always_ fighting.”

“Well, then maybe that’s just our shtick.” Clara shrugged and attempted a playful smile, but Malcolm avoided her eyes.

“Well, maybe it’s fucking toxic and we should cut our losses now.”

“Ok now you’re being stupid.” Her face turned stern.

“No, I’m being realistic.” He countered, finally looking her straight in the eye.

“Bugger off you don’t…” She stepped in closer and searched his face for an answer, anything to explain his perplexing behaviour, when his eyes dropped again in avoidance. “There’s something else. Something you’re withholding from me – _God_ , you’ve _really_ got to stop doing that.” She demanded with an exasperated sigh.

“There’s nothing.” He rebuffed quickly, his voice low.

“I swear to god, lie to me again I will hurl you over that bloody fence myself.” She glared at him.

Malcolm fell silent, his eyes looking her over as if he was struggling with some sort of internal debate, when his shoulders sunk low and he let out a long breath.

“We can’t.” He started simply, his voice monotone. “We can’t, because of the Mitchell Plan.”

Something clamped tight in Clara’s throat. “What do you mean?”

“If we’re together and we get caught, the press, the public – they will tear the bill to pieces.” Malcolm looked down at her with weary eyes.

“I don’t understand, what the hell does it matter to them if we’re together? What the hell does it have to do with the bill at all?” She couldn’t help but flare up against the honesty of his expression. He couldn’t be right. What if he was right?

“It’s got nothing to do with the bill, but everything to do with motivation.”

“Well they can bugger off cause our motivations were pure.”

“And they’ll take you at your word?”

“I’m an honest citizen.”

“But not honest enough to tell anyone you just shagged a high ranking government official.”

“Well that’s private.” Clara bristled.

“But it brought about public policy.” Malcolm countered coldly.

“Hey, us sleeping together was _completely_ unrelated to the bill.” She protested.

“Was it?” He looked down at her honestly, a single eyebrow raised.

Clara tried hopelessly to compartmentalize their past interactions. “Ok, it was messy.” She relented.

“And fucking public opinion goes _great_ with messy.” Malcolm ruminated darkly, watching as Clara slowly absorbed the situation. “They will crucify you. They will paint you as a fucking conniving slut, me as the horny old fucking puppet, and they will destroy _everything_ you helped build.”

“Fine.” She reluctantly surrendered, then tried to bolster herself up. This couldn’t be the end. Not if she had anything to do with it. “ _Fine_. So, no one can know. I get that. But who’s to say we can’t just keep seeing each other in secret? I mean, we’ve got away with it so far.”

“ _Clara_ …” Malcolm let out a pained sigh.

“No. Shut up. This is a thing that’s going to happen. We’ll pick out a spot somewhere, I don’t care, a hotel room or whatever, and meet once or twice a week – plus we’ve got our Nokias we can keep in touch with those - We can totally do this!”

“And the fucking paparazzo outside, we’ll get him a room too?”

“I’ll lose him.”

“Will you now? Well that’s a fucking first! Be sure to tell fucking Princess Di how you manage to pull that one off.”

“Well at least I’m _trying_ to figure another way out of this – fat lot of good you are!”

“There _is_ no other way!”

“There’s _always_ another way!”

“ _No,_ there fucking isn't! We’ve just got the two choices. Fucking _two_ , and that’s it! No fucking by-way, no get out of gaol free card, _nothing_! And when it fucking comes down to it, what the hell are you going to choose? You going to choose the future of millions of kids, choose them getting a proper education where they’re finally fucking trained for the future and fucking nurtured and encouraged with their creativity and compassion? Or are you going to choose some brief fucking fling with a withered old fuck you only met a week ago?”

“Us.” Clara found herself saying before she could even think.

Malcolm froze in his spot, eyes fixed on her, his breathing heavy.

What did she do?

She couldn’t mean that.

She didn’t say that.

But it was true.

“I’d…I’d choose us.”

Malcolm remained still.

An anxious silence.

“Me too.” He let out unexpectedly, voice broken.

 

 

 

“God…” Clara let out the breath she felt like she’d been holding forever as the consequence of their admissions crashed into her like a ten tonne train. “ _God,_ we are selfish little shits!” She glanced across to Malcolm, his posture sunk down towards the ground.

“Fucking shits.” He echoed roughly, then looked up at her. “I guess that answers the question then.”

“Yeah.” Clara agreed, her chest beginning to constrict at the realisation. “I guess it does.”

Another silence.

She was really starting to hate silence.

“So…” Malcolm tried to straighten himself up and looked away from her, stretching the muscles of his face then forcing them into a neutral expression. “…I’m pretty fucking crap at good byes…”

Oh.

Her eyes began to warm.

Good byes.

They were doing that.

She opened her mouth.

 _Say something_.

But she couldn’t.

Malcolm looked at the floor and scratched the back of his head, the two of them in heart wrenching holding pattern they knew they had to break.

“But I ah…” He attempted, looking up at her, his eyes rimmed with red. “…I meant to thank you. For my foot. And the ridiculous fucking socks.”

Clara swallowed down hard. She needed to say something. He was fucking leaving and thanking her and all she could do was…

A thought shot through her like lighting.

_Socks._

Those bloody…

She felt a grin bubble up inside her then take over her face as Malcolm watched this unexpected transformation with confusion. But she didn’t care what it looked like. Not when she found their way out.

“How long does it take for a bill to pass?” She asked excitedly, to which Malcolm only frowned.

“What?”

“The Mitchell Plan – how long would it take to be enacted?” She stepped closer to him, her feet almost buoyant.

He studied her carefully. “I don’t know… with something as fucking prominent as this, they’d want to pass it early for fucking claiming their authority… like a fucking dog pissing on new fucking furniture - so maybe 10, 11 months?”

“One year then.” Clara smiled.

“One year till what?”

“Till we see each other again.”

Malcolm raised his brow sardonically. “ _Right_ , like you’re going to wait a whole fucking year for me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Clara questioned honestly.

“Fucking – _look at you!_ ” He burst out, to which she could only smirk proudly. “You’re a fucking… _miniature Venus!_ Emerging from your own fucking pocket sized shell to cast all men to their knees! And then your brains, I mean, fucking good luck to the next man who gets to face off with those cause I had fucking no chance.”

“Better chance then anyone else.” She stepped closer to him.

“Don’t do that – don’t give me fucking hope.” Malcolm backed away, raised out between them.

“I’ll give you more than hope – I’ll give you a date.” She stepped undaunted against his defensive palm. “Remember? You still owe me a proper one. A year from now. The Powell Estate. One o’clock on the dot.”

Malcolm stared down at her, his hand slowly relenting at the touch of her soft shoulder, ghosting down her arm and sending a shiver through her.

“You won’t come.”

“Want to put money on that?” She challenged, then gave a small knowing smile. “Anyway, how else am I going to get my socks back?”

His eyes darted downwards to his feet then back to Clara, when he let out a weary sigh.

“Ok. You win.” He tried a smile that quickly fell. “I’ll meet you at the fucking Powell Estate.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that, mister.” Clara tried to keep her sense of victory unspoiled by his unenthusiastic agreement.

“I’m sure you will.” He murmured quietly, looking over her face as she realised they had ended up close to each other, their bodies only inches away from touching. “But I should probably go. Can I…I mean, before I fucking do, can I…” Malcolm started awkwardly, when she felt her feet rising to her tiptoes on their own accord, as if he was drawing her up towards him. “Can I kiss you?”

Clara suddenly felt vulnerable under his gaze, his frame bending down to her, encompassing her in his warmth as a thrill went up her spine.

“Not a goodbye kiss.” She whispered a demand as she arched up till she felt his hot breath against her lips, and they met in a soft, tentative union.

A cold hand slid up the base of her neck to her hair, as Malcolm moved to push the kiss deeper, to which she happily complied, opening her mouth and letting her tongue dart between his teeth. He followed just the same, her heartbeat increasing as they toyed for dominance, but when she jumped at the chance to run her hand through his short curls, he immediately stilled, and pulled away from her lips with a wet pop.

“Ok…” He leaned his forehead against hers as he tried to regain his breath, his hands encircling her face, the pad of his thumb unconsciously stroking her hair. “Ok…” He murmured again, their eyes catching each others, when he suddenly looked back down to her lips, and she felt him leaning into her again, his eyes falling shut while the heat against to rise in proximity – when she suddenly went cold.

Clara’s eyes flew back open. Malcolm had pushed himself away from her and was already marching out of the lounge room before she had a chance to snap out of the spell of their kiss.

No.

“Malcolm!” She leapt out into the dark hallway after him, but he had already reached the door, and charged out before she could say another word.

The slam of the door reverberated through her apartment.

She stood blankly in the middle of the dark.

Gone.

She bit down on her lip, the taste of him still present.

Just like that.

She gave a sniff and looked back to the light emanating from the lounge room.

He’d be back though.

A year. It was just a year.

What’s 365 days?

She took in a deep breath and padded softy through the quiet hall and returned to the light, looking over room in evaluation, the pillows squished against the couch where he sat, the small square of gauze stained with his blood still lying atop her coffee table.

A swell of sadness began to rush up inside her, but she stepped away before she let herself drown in doubt, headed to the couch, and sat down where Malcolm had been only minutes ago, but to her now seemed like an age.

He was going to meet her again. She sat up straight in forced confidence.

They got the Mitchell Plan, and they were going to meet again.

The apartment was quiet.

Empty.

But in her head, the refrain of a familiar song drifted in from her memory, taunting her in her victory.


	19. Chapter 18

Malcolm couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t as if he’d been particularly narcoleptic of late, but this torturous fucking night had taken the Ambien-laced cake.

The faint tick of his wristwatch sitting on the nightstand reverberated through his skull. He tried turning to the other side of the bed and pulling the soft duvet over his ear while stuffing the other firmly into the plush pillow – but in the back of his mind he knew all his efforts were futile.

He wasn’t awake because of his watch.

He was awake because it was the 2nd of May.

A swell of acrid nerves took hold in his stomach once more, eating him from the inside out. Today was the day she had ordered him to meet her again, all those long months ago.

 _Clara_.

His very own perpetual fucking torment machine.

At least by the end of the day he’d be rid of her. Be rid of the crippling hope that maybe she’d want a relationship with him. Or something. Anything. Every time he’d manage to drift off that night, his mind would drown him in endless simulations of their reunion – she would show up, strip off his trousers and start shagging him, then leave him naked on the fucking slide. Or she would show up, slap him for not telling her he got sacked, then leave him with a red fucking face.

However most times she wouldn't show up at all.

Most times he’d just be standing alone in a sad playground like the fucking chump he is. And then he’d wake up breathless.

Malcolm let out a huff and turned to his other side, when the omnipresent tick of his watch was drowned out by a barrage of excited thuds along the hallway outside. He pulled himself around to lie on his back and wrenched his weary eyes open. At least these days he didn’t need an alarm clock. He followed the heavy sounds as they made their way downstairs, but all he could do was stare up at the blank ceiling.

He didn’t want to get up. He wanted to sleep forever. Or at least till the end of the day. But he knew he had to make at least some sort of appearance downstairs otherwise he’d never hear the end of it. So scratching his fingertips through his thick beard then running them up to his wild mane of curls, Malcolm took in a long yawn, swung a reluctant leg out of the bed and sat himself up.

One day.

One day fucking more.

He could do this.

Malcolm slid the watch onto his wrist, then with creaking muscles he pushed himself off the bed, padded to the simple chest of drawers, slowly dressed himself in his civilian uniform of grey trousers and navy jumper, and tried desperately not to think of a certain pair of obnoxiously colourful socks he had kept hidden away as he slipped on his own dull white pair.

She wouldn’t really want them back. He only got them out of pity in the first place, and now it would just be supercharged with guilt too. Guilt for his life now. He didn’t fucking need that.

Malcolm shook his head and shoved his feet into his shoes then pushed out the door to the narrow hallway. The house was illuminated with the usual warm light to counter the grey, damp pallor glimpsed through the windows, and it provided him with an unexpected sense of relief from his darkest of thoughts. The amorphous clamour below him slowly became distinguishable as he descended the stairs, parting into the familiar tones of the deep murmur of the radio and the high pitched chatter of his current housemates, who he could now see rounding the kitchen table while their father weaved between them with plates of jam toast and cups of juice held aloft, only just keeping the reigns on the morning chaos.

“Morning!” His brother-in-law caught Malcolm entering the kitchen as he placed the plates down then quickly returned to the counter and focused on the small pile of potatoes that required chopping.

“Morning Sajid.” Malcolm responded as usual, though his voice was a little craggier then he’d like. “Mornin’ terrors.” He passed the small head of his nephew scoffing down breakfast and scruffed up his silky black hair, then moved on the other side of the counter where his salvation lay brewing in a glass beaker.

“Rough night?” Sajid flicked him a look across the kitchen as Malcolm poured himself a large cup of coffee.

“Like a bloody battalion of Oompa Loompas decided it would be a laugh to pour a tonne of sugar directly into my eyeballs.” There was a flutter of giggles at the table and he looked round to see his young niece taking a rare break from her drawing and giving Malcolm a toothy grin, albeit one with a rather prominent gap.

“That bad, eh?” His brother-in-law gave a sad frown in empathy.

“Nothing a little coffee can’t fix.” Malcolm grumbled into his mug then took a sip of the bitter drink before delving a hand into the bread bag and popping two slices into the toaster.

“Finished!” His nephew Hamish piped up from the table and presented his empty cup and plate proudly in the air.

“Alright good job now pop ‘em in the dishwasher and get your stuff ready, we still have to wait for your sister.” Sajid calmly ordered in his deep Manchester accent as his son skipped to the open dishwasher and plonked down his plate before turning to his little sister, who was still diligently drawing away in her own world, and gave a dramatic frown.

“Hurry up Aisha!” The boy demanded.

“I am!” His sister pouted, still looking down.

“No you’re not!”

“Hamish; _bag_.” Sajid stepped in sternly. “Have you got your ballet shoes and water bottle?”

The boy stomped begrudgingly out of the kitchen and around the corner to the main entrance of the house when Malcolm heard a forceful zip.

“ _Yes!_ ” Hamish’s monotone voice responded.

“What about your homework, pencil case…?” His father rattled off the well-known checklist as Malcolm granted himself a wry smile and flicked the hot toast onto his plate.

“ _Yes, yes, yes!_ ” Came Hamish’s answer.

“And the cue cards for your speech?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“Alright you’re good then.” He released his son then turned to the table. “Now finish your breakfast Aisha otherwise we’ll miss the tram.”

The little girl flicked a pleading look at her father but nonetheless put down her ubiquitous crayon and began to take small bites of her toast. Malcolm made his way to the table and sat opposite his quiet niece when Hamish returned, a very serious look on his face as he flicked through a thick pile of cue cards, and his father looked over to Malcolm.

“You know, your uncle used to coach all the top politicians down in London.” Malcolm couldn’t help but freeze slightly at the mention of his past – like a black dagger punching into this strange oasis he’d created for himself. But he couldn’t let it on. He took a sip of his coffee as his brother-in-law continued unabated. “You should ask him for some pointers for your speech today.” Sajid offered him up innocently.

Malcolm glanced up at the culprit’s smiling face, then down to his nephew, his big bloody eyes staring right back at him in what could only be described as a clueless mixture of hope and awe.

Malcolm didn’t even stand a chance.

“Alright then…” He gave a sigh and twisted himself round in his chair to face the boy. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Hamish flashed a grin then quickly flicked through his cards before he was contented, then shuffled his feet into a wide stance and gave a small cough. “GoodmorningmynameisHamishandtodayiwouldliketotalkabou – ”

“Whoa there…” Malcolm jumped in carefully while his mind struggled to find a way to critique his nephew without it all ending in fucking tears. “That’s good…” He attempted, scratching his beard, as Hamish’s face froze. “…It was. But ah, first things first – does your class know who you are?”

“Yes.” The boy responded quietly.

“Do _you_ know who you are?” Malcolm leaned towards him with a comically raised eyebrow.

Hamish let out a small giggle. “Yes.”

“Well ok then.” Malcolm sat up dramatically in his chair. “Good, that means we can cut out all those boring bits and go straight to the meat! Really hook ‘em from the start. What’s your next sentence?”

Hamish smiled with excitement and looked back down to his cards. “WatershipDownwaswrittenin – ”

“Bzzzzzp – _boring._ ” Malcolm pressed down onto his mug like a buzzer to little Aisha’s amusement. “That’s still just lentils. And nobody likes lentils!” He flicked a look over at Sajid who was watching on quietly, then back to his nephew. “ _Unless_ your da cooks them, of course – But I’m looking for a real, T-bone steak of a sentence; something that’ll grab your class by the… yo-yos.”

Hamish diligently scanned through his cards with hard focus before trying a line. “A bunny has a vision of their home being destroyed…?”

“We have a winner!” Malcolm clapped his hands together enthusiastically. “Any bloodthirsty 10 year old worth their salt would gobble that down!” Hamish smiled in encouragement but his uncle had not finished yet. “But next up on the list: close those legs up – you’re not laying an egg. Also slow right down and take a break between your words. Now this is something even the grownup politicians struggle with. But trust me, if you slow down, you will feel more confident, and the more confident you feel the more people will want to listen to you, and the more people want to listen the more they’ll like you.”

“But what about all the stuff in my actual speech?”

“I taught politicians, not academics. Substance ain’t my strong suit. Now let’s see that intro again.”

Hamish slid his feet together and raised his chin up with a deep intake of breath, when he was suddenly interrupted.

“Oi!” A commanding Scottish voice came from the stairs when Malcolm turned to see his own little sister marching down towards the kitchen. They shared the same slim, tall figure, but her face was all their mother; round, elegant and forgiving. Malcolm was the one who inherited the sharp edges. “What are you lot still doing here, don’t you have a tram to catch?”

“Uncle Malc was giving me a speech lesson!” Hamish exclaimed excitedly, to which his mother gave Malcolm a curious look.

“Was he now?” Katherine strolled into the kitchen. “Well hopefully I interrupted him before he had the chance to get onto Acerbic Adjectives.”

“What does that mean?” Aisha looked up at her curiously.

“You’ll find out soon enough I’m sure.” Kat answered drolly then turned to her husband, placed a gentle hand on his chest and gave him soft kiss before turning back round to her progeny. “Now up you get.”

“Come on kids.” Sajid stepped out from behind Kat headed to the doorway to lead the charge. The children jumped off their seats and hurried to follow, but not before Malcolm felt something faint against his forearm, causing him to look down to where it met the table when he saw that Aisha had pushed her drawing towards him. He picked up the unexpected gift and gave a small smile as he looked over the abstract splash of colour and lines, another piece to add to his quickly growing collection.

“Thanks A.” He called after his niece, who was having her bag posited on her back by her dad, then handed a bright green umbrella. She gave him a quick smile but then was hurried away out the door.

“ _Say bye!_ ” Sajid’s voice came from around the corner.

“ _Bye!_ ” The children echoed, then were cut off with the slam of the door.

Malcolm considered the drawing in his hand once more, then returned it to the table next to him when he saw a slice of toast had gone missing from his plate.

“Hey!” He looked up at his sister, who had now taken her husband’s place at the counter and was scraping the potatoes into the slow cooker, all while his breakfast hung precariously from her mouth. “I was going to eat that!”

“No you weren’t.” Kat put down the chopping board and tore the toast from her teeth before she headed to the fridge and threw him an orange. “Here you go citrus man.”

Malcolm caught the fruit and punched a thumb into the top with an annoyed sigh in defeat. The frustration of living with someone who knows you too fucking well.

“So…” His sister carried on, pulling a small tray of meat from the fridge then swinging close the door. “…you going to write today?”

Malcolm couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “ _No_ , I’m going to fuck off to The Hacienda and have a fucking glow-stick orgy with a dreadlocked white guy called fucking _Steve_.”

“Best add ‘invent time machine’ to that little list of yours too cause The Hacienda’s been closed for about 20 years.” His sister smirked as she added the meat to the cooker. “A fact you’d know if you actually ventured round this city.”

“Bit difficult to pop out for a jolly fucking stroll when your little sister has you chained to a laptop in her granny flat like fucking Mike Leigh’s adaptation of ‘Misery’.” Malcolm popped a slice of orange into his mouth and watched his sister darting to the pantry and back. “When did you get so bossy anyway?”

“One: I’ve always been bossy.” Kat smiled and poured a box of stock into the slow cooker. “And two: I’m your editor. It’s my job.”

“Was I drunk when I signed that contract?”

“One week sober.”

“Obviously delirious from withdrawal symptoms. I want out.”

“Guess I’ll just have to ghost write it then. You think one chapter is enough to spend on your frolicking over gran’s bluebells in my dresses?”

“ _Fine_ , fine I’ll keep writing the damn book” Malcolm huffed in his chair. “But for the record – you’re being played by Kathy Bates in the film version.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” She gave a satisfied smile, popped the lid onto the cooker and switched on with a flick, then turned back to him with trained eyes. “You going to finish that toast?”

Malcolm didn’t need to answer, just raised up the plate in front of him to which Katherine immediately stepped out and nicked the last slice. She took a bite out of it in silence when her eyes remained on Malcolm, as if she were carefully studying him.

“You look like shit.” She said after a moment, still chewing on a bit of toast.

“Always good to get second confirmation.” Malcolm grumbled under his breath.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” The tone of her voice had changed, into some faint variation of their mother’s, which normally he’d pounce on to tease her about, but now it just left him feeling exposed.

“That would be a no.” He avoided her eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” He answered automatically, but his thoughts were far more muddled. How many times this year had he just wanted to break down, tell his sister all about this ridiculous fucking school teacher who had taken hostage of his thought and all sane fucking reasoning, and never given it back. To ask her if he was just in some delusional fucking fantasy where he’d created his own perfect woman, or if it was even close to how she felt when she first met Sajid. To explain why he got fired, why he disappeared to Iceland, why Jaime called her to say he was passed out drunk on his couch, why he’d agreed to write a fucking memoir, why he took up her offer to stay up at her place.

Why all of this shitty fucking year.

But he couldn’t.

Because he was meant to be getting over her. Over that long-gone one week fucking fling. And the moment he told Kat about it, was the moment it would grow roots he could never pull.

So he stayed silent.

But there was something else behind his thoughts. Something dark and fragile that kept bubbling up to the surface of his mind, and which he suddenly released before he could stop himself.

“Why did mum stay with da?”

His question struck Katherine like a ghostly punch. Her face immediately turned grave, an expression he knew all too well, a shared dread of their past.

“I don’t know.” She said softly after a moment, the question something that she had obviously struggled with too. “Why do you – ”

“It’s nothing.” Malcolm looked down at his coffee.

They remained there in silence. He could feel her eyes upon him.

“You’re nothing like him, if that’s what’s been bothering you.” His sister’s words felt like a knife slicing straight through his torso, causing him to raise a sardonic eyebrow at her in disbelief of her statement. Kat just frowned as she easily translated his look. “Fuck off, I remember him just as well as you and you’re not him, ok? I mean, at the very fucking least – he was a coward. And that’s something you are most definitely _not_.”

Malcolm quickly stood up and grabbed his coffee.

He shouldn’t have fucking asked.

“I’ve got to go back to writing.” He turned away from his sister and headed straight to the back door that led to the garden.

Why the fuck did he even bring it up?

Malcolm reached for the handle and swung the door open.

At least she didn’t insist on fucking arguing with him at the fucking moment, but he knew she wasn’t about to quickly forget it.

He closed the door on himself before she had a chance to change her mind and he hurried over the wet paving stones to cross the small backyard as drops of rain pelted into his now lukewarm coffee until he finally reached refuge under the narrow awning of his sister’s unassuming granny flat. Malcolm bent down to pick up the small pyramid of rolled up newspapers that had been quietly left at the doorstep of the flat by Sajid, as they had every other day he’d been there, then gave the stiff door an extra push to open.

The room was cold and Spartan.

Against one wall there was a discoloured armchair with his abandoned jacket, and against the other stood a simple desk with his laptop. In between these, laying on the concrete floor at the back, was his small pile of suitcases he had thoughtlessly packed up with random clothes and books when he got the unexpected offer from his sister to take a little writing break with her three months ago. Though he knew even then her motive was not to keep an eye on her new project, no matter how much she liked to joke around about it.

She was worried about him.

And he couldn’t fucking blame her.

Malcolm dropped the bundle of newspapers unceremoniously onto the armchair then sat at the desk and drew open the screen of his laptop.

The word document of his memoir was still open. Taunting him.

A sea of white except for twelve fucking words.

He let out a groan and roughly scrapped his fingers through his hair before slamming the laptop shut with a hollow snap.

Who the fuck was he even kidding?

He was a fucking coward.

Too afraid to revisit his past.

Even too afraid to see if Clara Oswald would actually show up.

Malcolm began seep back down into the black mire of self-hatred when his eyes found themselves straying over to his abandoned suitcases against the wall.

They would still be there. He hadn’t touched them since he unconsciously stuffed them between mounds of books when he left London. In fact he had always kept them with him throughout the whole year. Anywhere he went – hidden, but close.

But now the day had finally come and he couldn’t fucking do it.

Malcolm stood up from the desk with heavy legs, walked the three steps to the back of the flat and crouched down by his bags. Slowly, he unzipped the smallest one and lifted the flap to reveal a colourful woollen bundle hiding in the corner. He picked up the pair of socks before he cold stop himself, and his mind drifted back to the night so long ago when she had cradled his bloody foot in her hand, when she defiantly rejected his attempts of breaking off whatever they had going on between them, when she left him with the faintest glimmer of fucking hope.

But that was then.

This was now.

And he didn’t think he could handle another punch in the fucking gut.

He heard the slam of a car door reverberate from outside.

Katherine was leaving.

She was wrong.

He was a fucking coward.

But he didn’t want to be. He never wanted to be like him.

Malcolm looked back at the socks in his hand.

What if he did it?

What if he went for the fucking punch anyway?

Another slam of the car door. Kat would drive off at any second.

His heart rate began to rise.

Malcolm checked his watch. 8:17. If he sped he could get there just in time.

No more time to think.

No more time for fucking cowards.

Malcolm shot up from the pile of bags, the pair of socks grasped in his hand and swiftly grabbed his jacket from the armchair as he rushed outside and into the rain. He stuffed a hand awkwardly through the arm of his jacket as he ran across the muddy garden, then down the side of the house, when he heard a car engine start.

Fuck.

Hurry the fuck up.

Almost tripping over a tangled up hose, he stuttered round the corner of the house when he saw his sister’s Audi slowly reversing out of the small front driveway.

“Kat!” He shouted after her, limping slightly as he attempted to put on the second arm of his jacket. “Kat, wait!”

The car stopped. Malcolm sprinted across the grass when the driver’s seat window began to wind down.

“What the fuck are you doing?” His sister’s face appeared behind the descending tinted glass.

“I need to borrow your car.” Malcolm ordered gruffly, the rain now beginning to flatten his hair.

Kat just let out a laugh. “Are you serious? You’ll crash it in a second!”

“I won’t, I promise, I just fucking need to get to London _now_ , ok?”

“Why?” She frowned.

Malcolm was struck still at the side of her door. He didn’t have any time to waste, but he needed her car. How could he even… His mouth opened but all words fell short.

Katherine let out a sigh in frustration. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…” She punched the release of her seatbelt. “You better get in before you turn into a drowned fucking rat.”

Malcolm leapt back as she threw open her car door. “Thank you thank you thank you I fucking owe you.”

“You already fucking owe me.” Kat grumbled as she got out of her car and moved to the passenger door to retrieve her bag and umbrella. Malcolm wasted no time in jumping into the driver’s seat. “I want this back by tonight, ok? Along with a complete explanation in fucking five-part harmony.” She glared at him as he started up the engine.

“You’re the best.”

“Shut up.”

Kat raised her umbrella over her head as Malcolm closed the window back up and began to reverse down the driveway. He couldn’t tell if the racing thud in his ears was the windscreen wipers or his fucking heart.

He was going to the Powell Estate.

He was running into a knock out punch.

He needed to hurry the fuck up.

Pressing down on the accelerator he flicked his eyes up to the rear view mirror when there was a sudden grey flash across the reflection, causing him to stomp his foot on the breaks with a hard jolt. He’d almost backed into moving traffic.

Malcolm looked out the windscreen and up the driveway to see his sister standing alone up the top, under her umbrella, her eyes glaring at him, as she firmly gave him the finger.

An auspicious fucking start to the journey.

He attempted a smile back at her then readjusted the rear view mirror and tried again. He had caught a glimpse of his tired face as he looked back to the road behind him, then carefully straightened up into the traffic. The dynamic duo were right – he did look like shit. Malcolm considered stopping at a petrol station on the way down, grabbing a cheap fucking razor and giving himself the first proper shave he’s had in ten months. Surely that would knock a couple of years off him, make him look the slightest bit more presentable if she did decide to show up.

But if she didn’t, his bare fucking baby face would just be there as a fucking reminder of her rejection.

Malcolm gripped the steering wheel and tried to remember the shortcut to the southbound motorway.

No shaving then.

He had to retain some shred of self-preservation.

The drive seemed to take far longer than he felt comfortable with, like Einstein had forgotten to add fucking Stress to his relativity equation. He speeded when he could, flicked between every single radio station before giving up entirely and resigning himself to silence – all the while watching time tick by laboriously slowly next to his revving speedometer. Didn’t help the universe had obviously conspired to torture him by placing certain giant fucking billboards along the side of the motorway every fucking mile – wide green blocks carrying the words _‘THE MITCHELL PLAN: Good for our kids. Great for the UK”_. Which, besides being the obvious fucking reminder of a certain stubborn lass with fucking balloons for eyes, made him stew over the White Hall Communication Office’s choice of fucking phrase. Because who the fuck would want to do something _just_ good for the kids? No, had to reassure the selfish fucking adults they’d be getting a cut of the benefits too.

Malcolm stepped down harder on the accelerator and the roar of the turbo engine graciously downed out his thoughts, when he finally glimpsed the turnoff sign for London. He automatically checked the clock again, but knew already that he was running out of time. He would have lucked out to begin with if Clara decided to show up, but now he was pushing that luck further if she actually bothered to stick around and wait for him.

He adjusted himself awkwardly in his seat and checked again that her pair of socks remained in his jacket pocket, then sped off towards East London.

Eerily, there didn’t seem to be any traffic at all the closer he got to the Powell Estate. His heart beat began to race and his chest began to constrict as the last part of his drive seemed to fly past disproportionately, and before his knew it he was turning into the driveway of the same drab council estate he kissed Clara outside of just over one year before.

Fuck.

This was it.

He leaned forward in his seat and looked up at the grey towers in front of him, their concrete façade almost blending into the bleak London sky. Malcolm slowed down, and took the faintly remembered route around the buildings to the back while his eyes darted round the sombre courtyard in search for any sign of Clara.

He stopped breathing when he turned the corner.

There was a motorbike sitting alone at the curb by the playground.

And in the playground itself was someone sat on the swings. Someone small and brunette.

Malcolm’s entire body flushed with an unbearable heart. His hands began to feel numb against the steering wheel.

She came.

He almost felt like he could vomit.

Did she come cause she still likes him? Or was it just pity? Was she still the same? Was she even who he remembered her to be?

There was a loud metallic crunch.

The seatbelt snapped against Malcolm as he jolted forward in his seat and slammed down on the breaks.

He’d fucking driven into the gutter.

Kat was going to murder him slowly with a rusty fucking spoon, but none of that even mattered at the moment, because out past the windshield of the car he could see that Clara heard the accident cause she was standing up and looking right at him.

He clumsily jimmied himself free from the seatbelt and jumped out of the car when he found himself standing only a couple of yards away from the woman he’d spent twelve whole months trying hopelessly to forget.

And he had no fucking clue what to say.

“You came.” She broke the silence for him with the voice he’d missed so fucking much. Though she almost seemed startled.

“So did you.” He managed to croak out. They stood there awkwardly for a moment when she stuffed her hands into her leather jacket.

“Whose ah, whose car is it this time?” She nodded to the wreck next to him.

“Sister’s.”

“Right. Her own fault for lending it to you then.”

“I doubt she’ll see it that way.”

“I see. Feisty one?”

“It’s a family trait.” He attempted a sly smile at her, but it didn’t seem to land. Unbidden, a fresh rush of nerves took over his gut. Didn’t look like she was here to pick up where they left off. He had to try a different tactic. He stepped forward towards the playground. “I brought your socks.” He delved a hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew the fluffy woollen ball. “As per your instructions.”

“Thanks.” She held out her hand to collect the socks as he approached her by the swings. “I’ve missed these things.”

Malcolm berated himself slightly as their fingers failed to touch when he gave her the socks and he looked dumbly at her as she considered the bundle in her hand for a moment before she finally spoke.

“Do you want to… should we sit down?”

He followed her line of sight to the swings when he caught her meaning. “Sure.” Malcolm agreed quickly and squeezed himself between the two metal chains to sit on the hard plastic seat, when tried not to focus on the way her legs only barely touched barely the wood chips underneath while his were splayed two feet in front.

“So.” Clara glanced up at him as she slightly swayed in her seat.

“So.” Malcolm couldn’t help but echo.

“How was your year?”

“Oh, you know, lots of hiking, oxygen, sustenance, and all that…” Malcolm obfuscated. “Nothing too interesting. Not compared to your year at least – I’ve spotted you on the telly a couple of times. Seems you’ve made quite the name for yourself.”

“Oh yeah, that.” Clara looked away. “Couldn’t really let them pass the Mitchell Plan without keeping a strong eye on them. Think it all got a little out of proportion in the end though, teacher’s union even asked me if I was thinking of running in the next election.”

“Are you?”

“No chance.”

“Pity.” Malcolm shrugged. “You’d make a pretty fucking brilliant politician.”

Clara didn’t respond, just readjusted herself in her swing before looking back over to Malcolm. “I’m liking the new beard look.” She attempted.

“What, this dead fucking rodent?” He gave her a smile and brushed his beard with his fingertips. “Grew it cause I knew it was the only way I could get fucking pubes on my face now.”

She fell silent.

Malcolm could fucking kick himself.

“I can’t do this.” She suddenly broke the silence, causing his heart to fucking drop in his chest, when she turned her face up to look at him properly. “I can’t. So… just… you listen up, ok? I don’t want to hear your bloody cynical speeches about how the world is shit so what’s the point, I don’t want you to brush it off like it was all bloody inevitable – I just want you… I just _need_ you to sit in your spot and be quiet for once in your life because I’ve waited to say this to you all fucking year, ok?” Her eyes burned into his as he was struck still.

“Ok.” He barely dared to answer.

“I’m sorry.” Clara began, her voice steady. “I am so, _so_ sorry you got fired. I’m sorry you lost your job that meant _everything_ to you. And I know it was your choice, I know you fucking ranted about it at the end, _I know all that_ – but without me you would never had made that choice. Without me you would never had lost your job. When I heard you resigned after the election I practically sprinted to that crappy old burner phone to call you, but I couldn’t. Because that would have just be me being selfish and reckless. And god knows I’ve done enough damage being selfish and reckless with you, with the policy, with everything in my life. But I’m working on it. I’ve been trying to work on it. So that’s it. That’s what I came here to say. I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

Malcolm’s brain malfunctioned.

_Forgive her?_

He almost choked at the ridiculousness of her plea, the words failing to form in his mind let alone his mouth.

There had to be a way he could make her see.

“I’m writing a book.” He suddenly blurted out, to which she just lowered her brow in confusion. “Well, fucking supposed to be writing a book. A memoir, in fact. Signed a fucking million pound book deal with my sister’s publisher four months ago, spent the last three months fucking camped up at her place in Manchester in order to write it, and I can recite the fucking entirety of what I’ve written so far in two fucking seconds: _‘Ask anyone in government about me they’ll say I’m a fucking cunt’._ ”

He let the silence fall between them before he started again, watching her face soften just the slightest bit.

“This year… I’m not going to fucking placate you and say it was all fucking roses and unicorns. It was fucking hard. You don’t fucking realise how much your fucking job has pumped up your fucking human suit and made it function until all the fucking air is sucked out and you’re left with nothing but a sack of fucking skin. I _was_ my job. And I had no idea how to be me without it. Fuck, I still don’t, if I’m completely fucking honest. But writing a memoir - or fucking _not_ writing it – you’re forced to look back at your life. And I’ve realised, I haven’t written jack shit because I don’t know what to say. I know _exactly_ what to fucking say. I can a write a ten page diatribe on my preferred posture when I take a fucking dump for fuck’s sake. But I don’t want to. I don’t like what my life had become and I don’t want to fucking revisit it. So, you know, _yes_ , I forgive you. Whatever that fucking means. Because I would never have changed if it weren’t for you. I’d still be a fucking coward and a puppet. Fuck, the way I was going, without you being an obstinate little shit, I’d probably have ended up in jail eventually. But I’m here, and I’m slowly getting better. So. That’s why I came. To tell you that. And I don’t want to hold you to anything you said last time, cause a year’s a fucking year, but I thought one day you might feel like complete shit so it would be nice I guess if you knew that at least you saved this one broken fucker’s life.”

Malcolm felt as if a crushing weight had finally fallen off his shoulders. He said it. At least he fucking said it. But to his complete surprise, when he finally dared to look back up at Clara to see her reaction, her large eyes were tinted red with tears.

“Fuck – ” He jolted up straight in his swing. “Don’t cry. I didn’t mean to – ”

“You mentioned what I said last year.” She carried on undeterred, as the first tear rolled down her soft cheek.

“Did I? Yeah I guess I fucking did.” Malcolm panicked, unable to read the contradictory emotions on her face. “But, you know, who the fuck remembers the specifics, it’s fucking fine if you don’t.”

“I said I’d choose you.” She seemed to have moved in closer to him.

“Yeah over a fucking nation of kids. And you just said you where done making selfish decisions, so, fuck, I completely understand if you’ve changed your mind.”

“I haven’t.”

“What?”

“I’d still choose you.”

Malcolm felt his throat close up on him as he stared down at Clara in awe.

“ _Why?_ ” He could only ask.

“Because you’re incredible.” She finally let out a smile through her tears. “Because you’re a bastard. Because you’re tall and you’re kind, even though you pretend you’re not. Because your Scottish and sexy and because absolutely none of the men I’ve met this year can even remotely compare to you.”

Malcolm couldn’t help but narrow his eyes. “How _many_ men _?_ ”

“Shut up you idiot.” She gave him a playful shove, the first contact for a whole fucking year. His body radiated with joy.

“Just saying, I’d like to know my stats here. What was it, 45? 120?”

Clara frowned at him in jest. “You’re right, I am starting to change my mind now.”

“What, and miss out on _Mr Incredible_?”

“Well who says he’d choose me too?”

Malcolm stilled, when his hands clasped either side of Clara’s swing and he pulled her straight to him, his eyes hooded in attack. “Love, he doesn't even _get_ a fucking choice. Seems you’re it for him.”

Her eyes flicked over his face, their noses almost touching as he became intoxicated by her presence.

“Big responsibility.” She murmured against his lips when their eyes locked.

“I think she can take it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Malcolm moved the fraction forward and took her lips into his own with a blessed sigh of relief. How long had he fucking missed this. How long had he wondered if he’d ever get the chance to taste her lips again, to feel the slow draw of her fingers against the back of his head as he did now. Their kiss became deeper but it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. He wanted it to go on forever.

Which was exactly when he heard a shrill fucking wolf-whistle across the fucking way.

Malcolm pleaded the non-existent gods that Clara would just ignore the sound and continue doing that thing with her tongue, but unfortunately, she drew back from him. He held down a grumble of annoyance when he finally opened his eyes to see Clara looking out past the playground to the drive around the building, when she unexpectedly burst out into a roar of laughter.

Malcolm sat like a confused dunce, and followed her sight only to find a small group of fucking teenagers with a football gawking at them.

“What is it?” He turned to Clara, who was still laughing, but she couldn’t answer. “What?” He flicked back to the kids, who seemed just as perplexed as he was at her outburst. “Oi! Shouldn’t you kids be in fucking school?!” He shouted at them in frustration, which only seemed to make Clara laugh even harder.

“Fuck you!” One of the spotty teenagers threw back with a V then they carried on playing football regardless.

Clara’s hands found themselves sprayed across Malcolm’s shoulder as she tried to regain her breath, but her eyes were once again bloodshot and puffy with tears, this time with a whole other reason, but still not making any sense to him at all.

“You right?” He looked down at her curiously.

“Fine. I’m fine.” She answered between dying laughs. “It’s just… life, you know?”

“Ah yes!” He raised his eyebrows and gave an over-exaggerated nod. “ _Life_. Yes. I know all about life.”

“Do you now?” She looked up at him with a keen smile.

“I do. Well fucking versed. I can give you a lesson or two in it, if you’d like?”

“I’d like that very much.”

“Just a warning though, lessons might take years, decades, even.” He couldn’t help but attempt out as he felt himself once again moving closer to her.

“Well then.” She gave a content smile and grasped his hand firmly into hers. “We’d better get to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it. 
> 
> The end.
> 
> I want to take this moment to thank everyone from the bottom of my cold, decrepid heart for sticking with this fic over the years. So many times I'd often thought to drop if but your comments of encouragement made this whole thing possible, so thank you so damn much. 
> 
> Now go fuck yourself sweetly with a marzipan dildo.


End file.
